Balm (and POV)
by SpunSilk
Summary: Kolchak: The Night Stalker story, in which Carl experiences Culture Shock. Be sure to read Author's Notes. "In front of me, the Amazon Rainforest rose majestically like a verdant wall; behind me, the mighty river slid past silently. Neither gave the impression of being especially pleased to see me there."
1. Balm (and POV) part 1: Preface 1

**Balm (and P.O.V.)**

**by SpunSilk**

* * *

**Okay, this one needs some explanation. This story came about after a challenge from a reader. The challenge was to 'write a story where Carl gets the girl'. That took a long while to percolate, but in the end here it is. If that is not your interest, fair warning, you may want to skip this story. It's handled tastefully (I hope) and is only a small part of the overall story, but it's there.**

**Now, Lodestone was never meant to be a preface to anything. It was and is a stand-alone story. But Balm makes no ****sense unless you have this background. If it's been a while since you read it, ****consider enjoying a re-read.**

**Carl isn't mine, but I'm borrowing him to tell this story.**

* * *

**Part One **

**First Preface: Lodestone**

* * *

"You want to _hire_ me? To do what?"

"To go with me to the seance." Alton faced me across the table at the coffee shop where we had agreed to meet, his smooth face eager as he leaned forward over his Venti Carmel Dolce Latte, extra hot.

I shook my head. "Sorry. That's not in my job description." I sipped my coffee, black.

"Carl Kolchak has a good reputation..."

I glanced at him sideways. My brow furrowed skeptically, but he was earnest. "Pray tell; where?" I asked with amusement.

"The Internet, of course. Don't you read blogs? All the stories you've covered all these years are out there, people have posted them. You are the go-to person for all things...odd."

I scowled. Infernal computers! I haven't ever read a _blog_, not real sure I understand what one _is_. "So you're thinking if I'm there, this ghost you're wanting to talk to has a better chance of showing up? I don't think so. That's up to the person doing the mumbo-jumbo. _And_ the whim of the ghost, from what I understand."

"No, no. It's not about the ghost. It's more about the mystic himself. I'd feel better if you were there. I think..." he chose his words carefully. "...it would keep him honest. I don't think he would try to fake anything with a... mmm... an _expert_ in the room."

I chuckled, but shook my head. "Look, son, it's true I've seen a lot of strange stuff in my day. But I what I am is a _reporter_––"

"Well, nothing says you couldn't _report_ on the _seance_... And be paid for your presence as well, what could be better?"

* * *

His logic was convincing. And let's face it; I needed the cash.

So it was that I found myself, the next evening, standing outside the apartment of one of L.A.'s master mystics. I came with camera, recorder, and a healthy load of world-weary skepticism – three things I like to have on my person at all times. The man that answered Alton's knock was large and well-dressed with a full beard, neatly trimmed with a generous helping of salt.

"Hello. I'm Ryan Alton, we've spoken on the phone. And this is Carl Kolchak, I'm sure his reputation is known to you."

"Pleased to meet you both," the larger man rumbled, his low voice dove-tailing well with his large frame. He extended his hand. "I'm Donald Mansavage."

Mansavage? I grimaced sympathetically as I shook his hand. And I had always thought that 'Kolchak' had been a hard thing to be saddled with...

"Mr. Kolchak, I'm so pleased you could arrange time in your busy schedule to be here, this is quite an honor."

I'm not sure what this guy was smoking. _Kolchak_ and _honor_ aren't two words that often team-up in a sentence.

"Do come in." He led us through what seemed to be a windowless receiving room and down a long hall, past a number of closed doors to a large inner room that was dripping with props to enhance the "mood". Heavy velvet curtains hung on the walls; velvet that swallowed audible tones, whole. The stale hint of incense hung stagnant in the air as well, and the lighting was appropriately dim and mysterious. Low bookshelves sagged under the weight of a small library of books on the occult. I glanced around at his set and wondered, once again, at the gullibility of the human race. A round antique table was in one corner, no tablecloth, with bent-wood chairs sitting close. The dim light came from wall sconces that hung only near the table itself. A single candle and box of matches lay waiting for flame in the center. I shook my head.

Mansavage propped the double doors of the room open. "I have been in meditation for two hours now in preparation. I feel the spirits are moving tonight, and eager to communicate." he commented, guiding Alton to one of the bent-wood chairs.

"Convenient." I commented, and walked instead toward a pair of over-stuffed chairs that stood against a side wall in the shadows.

"Mr. Kolchak! Do join us." our host insisted, indicating a chair next to Alton.

"No, thanks. This ghost is no personal friend of mine, Mr. Mansavage. I'll just keep an eye on this side of the room here." I flopped down and pushed back my hat. Alton smiled approvingly from behind the larger man's view.

"Well, if that suits you better..." Mansavage said, taken aback. "Ah... Shall we begin?" Thus began the normal mumbo-jumbo of a seance. They took their seats, and the mystic lit the candle with a flourish worthy of any B rated Hollywood flick. His voice took on a low, hypnotizing drone as he started his incantations.

I shifted impatiently in my seat. Nonsensical way to spend an evening, if you ask me. Calling ghosts! Any ghosts I'd seen in life were not wont to be called like a common terrier. _Whistle __– Here, boy! Good boy!_ But I was just here to observe; easy enough. I sighed.

I settled back in the over-stuffed chair, anticipating an easy fee.

I waited quietly a good ten minutes as he droned on in the heavy, scented air, expecting nothing would appear. But in direct contradiction to the wisdom '_Good things come to those that wait_', something did appear.

In the dim light, I suddenly saw a knobbily ... _creature _peek in from the double doors. Biped it was, as tall as my knee, with a broad head sparsely covered with long hairs, which he shook from side to side. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. It crept silently to the table, and clambered up on an empty chair as gracefully as a monkey, and began blowing gently at the candle with a mischievous air. This made the flame stretch and dance. Neither Mansavage nor Alton paid the creature the slightest mind, seeming to react to only the candle's odd behavior, which interested them greatly. The thing had huge eyes and too many teeth for its small mouth, all of which peeked out from under its upper lip– stretched tight in a wide grin. Dressed like a small peasant in coarse weave trousers and a loose surcoat, he began gesturing towards Alton at distance of few inches. Although it never actually touched him, I could almost see the hair on Alton's neck rise up at the creature's attentions.

Mr. Alton shuddered.

I managed not to scream. Too shocked to scream, if I'm being honest. But not too much shocked to forget to bring my camera up. The camera; that's hard-wired into my spine. But as I raised it –and before I could touch the shutter– the imp startled, whirled around to face me, and froze with wide eyes when it saw me. A beat later, the homunculus lit out of the dim room like quicksilver. I rose and slipped silently after it.

Down the long hallway we bounded. In the outer room it slid to a stop frantically looking for an exit, but finding the door closed, it whirled to face me in a deep defensive crouch. "I am not one of the Forty-nine! Leave me alone!" it grated in a voice thick with an accent I couldn't place.

It _spoke_. "Wha– What the..._hell_ are you?" I stammered and raised the camera. The flash temporarily blinded us both in the dim light.

He did not spook at the flash, but stared at me in amazement for a few beats– then laughed heartily. "A camera? Seriously? Come, come my good fool. Why do you think you can photograph me? And to what end?"

My body blocked his exit back into the hallway. "Don't worry, I'm not going to lay a hand on you." I spoke and gestured calmingly for both our sakes; my heart was beating like a drum solo, and he was still crouching defensively. "You can keep your pot of gold. I just want some answers."

"My _what_?"

"Gold." I said reassuringly. "Not that I couldn't use it, mind. But I'd rather have the _Pulitzer_–"

"What in the name of the Nibelungen are you talking about?!"

"You being a some brand of leprechaun, and an ugly one at that."

"_Leprechaun_!?" He spat, now incensed. "_Unversch__ä__mtheit _!"

"No? Okay then, what are you? A demon?"

"I'm a **Kobold**, I'll thank you." he hissed. "And now you'll do me the favor in return – and tell me what brand of creature _**you**_ are!"

"Just a man."

He glared at me. "Ingrate! _I_ spoke you the truth!" he spat.

"I did the same."

"You're _human_?" he asked in honest astonishment, standing bold upright.

"Yeah!" I answered, thinking it was obvious, bewildered by his surprise.

His eyes narrowed craftily, "Prove it, then. Open this door."

I glanced at the door he had indicated with a jerk of his mis-shapen head. He waited expectantly, but I chuckled and crossed my arms smugly. "I'd really rather you stayed and chatted a while. You can't open it yourself, I take it?"

He scowled.

"What's a Kobold?"

He gabbed a long, frog-like finger at me. "You have _no_ power over me!" he declared.

"Then why are you so nervous?" I asked with a wry smile.

He hesitated. "I... I've just never seen a human before with that kind of... aura. That's all." He frowned as he studied me, calculating. "Are there a lot of your kind?"

"Just enough of us," I lied cooly, probing for information, "Where have you been hiding that you've missed us all these years?"

He squirmed. "Well... I ... started out in the mines, naturally. Not a large number of humans to be seen _there_, of course. " his gaze flittered fugitively around the floor. "Then, much later I was a Klabautermann on sailing ships for a few centuries... still kind of a limited exposure, I suppose." He looked up. "Ships are metal and less fun nowadays, my new turf is land again. How many did you say there are there like you?"

"What's a Kobold?" I repeated.

He hesitated again, but finally answered. "Humans _used_ to know. Nowadays most of them don't seem even interested in knowing what's _in_ the world... Well. To you I'm a rascal-sprite. No threat. Just mischief. That's the truth! I swear it! I tweak humans when they are frightened, open the coop for their chickens, move their keys, that type of thing... " His voice turned sing-song. "... as in _Kobolds are creatures whose sole delite consists in perplexing the human race, and evoking those harmless terrors that constantly hover round the minds of the timid._" He cackled at his own boast.

"Were you summoned here by Mansavage?"

"By whom?!"

"The mystic in the back room."

"Oh. That's his name? Of course not; that halfwit can't summon diddly-squat. Simpletons come here all day long thinking he can. He even believes it himself. It's all so comical. No-one can summon a Kobold! I just hang out here sometimes because it's so entertaining." He backed up a step with a look of discomfort on his small face. "Your aura is awfully large, can you back off and leave me some space?"

"Answer my questions for me and I'll be kind and open the door."

His jaw set. "You're _not_ making me happy, human."

"I'm not trying." I said simply. "Do you have a name?"

"Chimmeken." he answered, less than contrite, "Chimmeken das Galgenmänlein. Now, what do you call your_self_?!"

"Carl Kolchak."

"Well, I have some questions for _you,_ human Kolchak! Let's start with the obvious. Why can you see me?"

"I'm asking the questions here–"

"You've got no eyes for my kind. That is, unless I allow it."

"These eyes may be old, but they don't miss much," I retorted saucily.

At this he lay his head back and laughed full-throated. "There's a good fool!" he stomped his tiny bare feet in glee. At length he peered at me with a wry smile. "You don't even _know_ what it is you don't know."

I ignored his insults. "By 'aura' you mean the invisible field of light a person is supposed to wear?"

"Not just people. Don't think of yourselves so highly. _All_ creatures under the sun have auras. Life-forces is another way to say it. Weak beings have pale ones, more significant beings' auras are more powerful. That way, you can tell at a glance what you're dealing with. It's a neat system." He wrinkled his nose. "You yourself make _quite_ a distortion in the Ether."

All the air seemed to leave the room. "I do _what_?" I asked weakly.

"Oh, yes." he nodded his small bulbous head. "I can imagine an aura like yours must be almost heavy to carry around." he grinned at his own joke.

He had me curious at this point, I must admit. "Describe it to me then, if you must." I said off-handedly.

"Oh, of course – you've not seen it! As a human, you've never even seen the _Ether_, have you?" He took on a mischievous twinkle. "Aren't you curious? Haven't you ever longed to see it? Just a peek?"

I frowned. "What do you mean with 'the Ether'?"

He gawked at me. "You've not heard of the _Ether_? With **_your_** aura? Well, I'll be pickled in beet brine! The Ether is what we all move in and through; you, me, all the beings of this round world. Not just the limited stuff: _all_ of it."

"Air." I ventured.

He made a disgusted noise. "Not _air_, ninny. The _Ether_." He looked down his nose at me. I had to give the little imp credit; doing that is a trick when you top out at some 20 inches.

"If I can't see something, it's usually not there," I answered confidently.

He scoffed. "Like a blind man insisting there's no-one else in the room, simply because he can't see them there. Fool!"

"These five senses have done alright for me all these years," I countered. "I trust them."

"Ahh! Is that so? I have a question for you, human Kolchak. If given the chance, would you show _music_ to a deaf man? For only a minute? If it were in your power?"

What a strange question. I considered it, then answered philosophically. "Does the deaf man _want_ to know? Maybe having one minute of music wouldn't be worth the lifetime of silence that followed, once he knew _music_ was out there."

He studied me, amused. "I should be able... yes. Just a moment..." he frowned in concentration, working hard on something inside his own head. "Ah. Here."

I staggered, and fell back on the door frame for support.

The scene around me didn't budge– I still saw the room, but in a flash, a lot more information was being picked up by my eyes. Well, to be honest, I have no proof it was coming from my eyes. But that's the best way to describe it. Suddenly the light in the room seemed... split up into its component colors; white light now appeared as smooth, straight beams of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet – and I could see all of them separately, all at once. Yet I'm not sure it was even actually _light_. _Something_ was ... existing in straight beams. On top of this, what I was 'seeing' wasn't just limited to Mansavage's small receiving room.

My breath stopped short, in-spite of my mouth hanging open like a three-day-old Lake Bass.

More than the beams, there were... things. In the beams. It was a thick soup of activity. The things (shapes? beings?) moved through the beams,either being pierced by them or moving the colors aside as they passed – some of the things two-legged, some _four_, some without legs at all. Many appeared to be soft and amoeba-like, and oozed between the beams. Some were not 'visible' at all, only showing themselves as clear voids that moved the beams out of their path as they made their way lazily across my view. The beings that _were_ visible did have bulk and color, but that seemed secondary in my mind to the fact that they interacted with the scaffolding of the beams, and the manner of that interaction. That impression came first.

I was able to 'see' these things from multiple angles all at once, which made my head hurt. Comparable, I guess, to the difference one feels between looking at something with two eyes instead of one; I had _depth perception_ but it was more than that somehow, as if I had more than one vantage point.

"What the _**hell**_ is going on?" I croaked.

"This, my good fool, is the real world. The Ether. You're seeing it through me. You humans don't have the sense."

"What _is_ all this?" I asked, awe creeping unbidden into my voice. I suddenly felt very, very small.

"It's the Ether. Where do you _think_ it all came from?"

"All what?"

"_All_ of it, ninny." he answered. "All the Levels. Angels and Demons, spirits and phantoms, shades and shadows," he started gesturing into the soup, and to my utter amazement, I followed his explanation. "Creatures! Banshees and kelpies and leprechauns for you, Bogeyman and Defenders, pixies and monsters. The Abyss." he gestured.

At that point, he got what I would have earlier called 'a far-away look' in his eye and started reciting. In actuality, however, the look wasn't far-away; he was simply watching the shapes floating lazily by:

"Salamander shall kindle,  
Writhe nymph of the wave,  
In air sylph shall dwindle,  
And Kobold shall slave.

Who doth ignore  
The Primal Four,  
Nor knows aright  
Their use and might,  
O'er spirits will he  
Ne'er master be.

{ from Goethe's _Faust _}

"But that's only those levels. Take a look: Karma and the evil eye; luck –both good and bad– and more: creativity, despair, inspiration, rage, hope. These are real things. They have real substance. It's all here, moving around all living things, through us, _in_ us, making us make up the world."

"It's here?" I asked under my breath. "All the time? All... close enough to _touch_?" I marveled at the graceful dance of the shapes through the beams. Each shape as I focused my attention on it seemed to have a different... taste. Not the right word, but I'm sticking with it for lack of a better one. Each taste was distinct blending of feel; some metallic, some peppery, some dry, some cool and soothing, some jazzy, some blunt, others tasted sharp.

As I started to finally get my sea-legs, my attention was drawn farther afield than the small room, and I was startled to see Mansavage and Alton sitting in the room at the back calmly continuing their seance. Beams of colors filled that room too, but the beams passed straight through the furniture as well as each of the men without interruption. My gaze widened at that to a startling distance. I could see _hundreds_ of people in the buildings and neighborhood around me, all in perfect focus, each with their own particular color and 'taste' of aura, each moving through life pierced by straight colorful beams. Shapes moved around the beams near each of the people, the softer ones occasionally coming to rest on someone like a soft feather blanket, occasionally leaving in the same manner. Only some of them were like this though; others were shaped like sickle-cells, and others sharper even than that. Some seemed to have "noises" associated with them – metallic buzzing, or low tones, or audio-gibberish. It was an overwhelming assault on my brain.

"All the Levels have access here," Chimmeken commented. "Isn't it grand?"

"I can see all around me for a quarter mile! Even with walls in the way!" I panted.

"Fool. It doesn't seem strange to you when your _eyeballs_ can see all the way to the horizon when you're standing a hill. Why should this range amaze you?"

The people moved about their evening activities blissfully unaware of the activity around them. And he was right about the auras. Colored halos surrounded each living thing... as well as a few things I would have pegged as inanimate. But 'color' was only one part of the mix of these halos. They had tastes too, rich blends of wildly disparate sensations; colors, contained motion, fragrances, tactile sensations, all radiating out anywhere from a half an inch to sometimes two feet into the straight beams of color.

The Kobold's smallish aura tasted deep orange with overtones of yellow and vinegar. I turned my attention to my own, easy to do since I had other vantage points available. I radiated a good-sized aura of surprisingly intense evergreen with over tones of wood smoke and... sandpaper...

Only then did I become aware of the beams around _me_. Whereas they all passed straight through the other people in the city – and straight through the Kobold as well – the beams were... _curving_ around me. Swirling in fact, most intense at about arms' length but extending out a good way beyond my reach. I was contained in a 3D... _cage_... of smooth colors that spun together without blending. I reached out to touch a tantalizing shade of blue, but it retreated away from me as I approached it.

"Why aren't the beams passing _through_ me like they are through everybody else?"

He blinked. "Because you're a magnet, of course."

"Magnet?" I asked sharply.

"You didn't even _know_?" he stared at me slack-jawed. "How could you not know?

"_What_ should I know?"

"Haven't beings from the Levels of the round world been attracted to you? To check you out? To test your mettle, even? I would think any of us would cross right over to see this oddity closer."

Magnet. He had used that word. I looked at the beams critically. _That__'__s_ what they looked like: magnetic force-lines. In colors. All around me. Flowing first out of my head then curving out and down to re-enter at my feet. It all clicked. "Huh." I groused. "That would explain my _life_."

This. _This_ was why my life was cursed. This was why I couldn't seem to turn around without the stories I pursue turning bizarre. This was why I had to sleep with a cross under my pillow and a carry a Mojo bag around my neck. This was why my nightmares were off the Richter scale, and why a good chunk of my waking life looked like a nightmare. This.

The rascal smirked. "Around an aura like _that_, stuff happens."

"But, my life was perfectly normal for decades before the Odd Stuff started happening. What changed?"

"It's obvious, fool. You got magnetized at some point."

"_**How**_?" I demanded.

"You tell _me; _I wasn't there." he answered flippantly. "It happens occasionally– just usually not to humans..."

"Can I ever be de-magnetized?"

He looked at the lines appraisingly. "Anything's possible, but ..." he snorted in amusement, "It doesn't look temporary to _me_..."

The doorknob was turned from the outside. In my amazement at the vision I had not noticed someone about to enter Mansavage's apartment. I have to think Chimmeken had.

The connection was cut. Life snapped back into 3 dimensions. I reeled.

Everything looked normal again, but it all seemed gratingly _flat_, and the walls around me felt oddly claustrophobic. The air was again clear and empty. I fought to regain my mental balance.

The door was being opened. The Kobold made for the exit like a gazelle . "Wait!" I cried, "I still have questions–"

"Yes." he clipped. "And I'm _fine_ with that." He slipped nimbly between the new-comer's ankles, and then in a wink the imp –and my Pulitzer– were gone.

Mrs. Mansavage stood in the center of the small room looking at me quizzically. "Hello." she said. I tried to make sense of her greeting, but failed. I managed only a smile and a perfunctory touch to the brim of my hat before turning and returning weakly to the dim inner room.

Mr. Mansavage came out of his trance as soon as I stumbled in. "Mr. Kolchak! Where –– ? My heavens! Sit down here, man. You're white as a ghost!" he exclaimed.

All this was months ago, now.

The daily grind goes on; I go into the office. I type copy. I report my stories.

But sometimes...

Sometimes I find myself spending time staring into the empty air around me. Empty air. Wondering... about the Big Picture; imagining the music _behind_ what I can see...


	2. Balm (and POV) part 2: Preface 2

**Balm (and P.O.V.)**

**by SpunSilk**

* * *

**More of the same author notes; "Pepperpot" honestly was never planned to be part of any other story, just one evening of Carl's life, full-stop. But... Balm will make even less sense without *this* story, than without "Lodestone".**

* * *

**Part Two**

**Second Preface: Pepperpot  
****(some large number of months later)**

* * *

I reclined back onto my dead green couch with a sigh and a bourbon. I was bone-tired.

Three weeks of digging in the latest political corruption scandal. I won't bore you with the details, they're always the same anyway. You know the outline –fresh new guy campaigns on honesty and uprightness, the public (ever optimistic and hopeful) puts him in office... then when he gets a taste of power, his ambition and ego grow till the guy in the end believes he's above the law. Sometimes I think the Free Press –God love it– is the only defense we have against society itself sliding down that long, steep slope. I was fatigued; tired of the story, tired of politics, tired of _people_. I had to be careful; if I spent too much time around these self-righteous, pompous types... well, I may just have to become a _cynic_ in my old age. I kicked off my shoes and loosened my tie. A few clicks on the remote pulled up just what the doctor ordered: Louie Armstrong's trumpet flowed down on me like a heavy blanket and eased my pains.

It couldn't have been more than a half hour before it all started. I _smelled_ it before anything else. The inside of my schnoz started to tingle. I sneezed, rubbed my nose hard with my forearm and turned my attention back to the burn of the bourbon and the welcome relief the jazz offered from my small stereo. But the tingle persisted and was joined by a bitter "feel" in the air. I glanced around to see if a source presented itself, but none did. I didn't investigate yet at that point, but rather left my tired bones lay at peace on the sagging couch and enjoyed the alcohol lending me its illusion of happiness.

When it started to transform itself into the smell of _smoke_, on the other hand, I was out of my seat in a hurry. This old building was an accident waiting to happen. I scanned the room. I could see my whole castle from where I stood there and saw nothing amiss, one quick check of the adjoining john showed the same there. As I turned back to the big room, the smell was noticeably stronger. It didn't smell like wood smoke, exactly, it was scented somehow... but it was unmistakably smoke. I bounded to the door and, after checking with my flat hand to feel whether or not the door was hot, opened it and checked the hall. Nothing. And the air out there was scent-free. Reassured with that at least, I closed it again and went to my single window to check the night air outside the building. Cool and still; well, as still as it ever gets in this part of town. Nothing amiss.

I closed it again and turned back to the room. That's when I saw it.

A shaft of blue light was piercing my abode from ceiling to floor in the middle of the room. I froze. The tingly-smoke smell was even stronger now. But if this... phenomena was the source of the smoke smell, at least it didn't seem to be a fire. As odd as it sounds, I relaxed somewhat.

So there we stood, the shaft and I, neither moving. My mind switched instantly from tired-of-politician-weariness into Odd-Stuff-survival-mode. What did I have available? My crucifix was under the pillow way over on my bed. My Mojo bag was hanging on the light bulb in the john. My bat was well beyond the shaft, at its station by the door. All I had near me was a small pile of dirty dishes in the tiny sink –forks, yeah great. I had access to a few forks– and an exit plan which consisted of a window behind me that held a three-story drop. That's what I had... that, and my wits.

The blue shaft was joined in the middle of the room by a yellow shaft close by it, and parallel. A purple shaft faded into view as well. I waited, breathing only shallowly, heart pounding like a drum solo. I stood there frozen a good five minutes, but nothing else happened. I heard nothing, but the smoke/bitter/effervescent smell remained strong. In the end, curiosity took over, and I slowly extended my hand out toward it. The shafts wavered slightly in the room, like they were moving under water, but then settled back to their positions. I puzzled.

Eventually, I started taking cautious steps toward the colors. They were translucent, incredibly intense, and in a word, beautiful. But what were they? And what the hell were they doing in my room? As I cautiously approached them, all three slowly began _bending_ away from me. Startled, I retreated; they straightened once more. Oh shit. I knew what these were. Ether.

"Chimmeken?" I snarled. No response. "Kobold! Chimmeken!"

I surveyed the entire room. All was in order, but I knew that –unseen by my eye or any human eye– there were uncounted stripes of color passing through every inch. The Ether. Where 'all the the Levels have access'. I had seen it only once, for all of three minutes. But it had left me with the humbling view of being a very small person in a very large universe I knew even less about than I had always figured.

The tingly smoke smell was getting stronger yet, to the point where I started to feel dizzy. I considered leaving the room to clear my head. But the shafts stood resolutely in the way. Plus I didn't _want_ to leave. I was curious as hell.

As I stood watching, a form started appearing just behind the shafts. It pulled itself into focus as it stepped forward through the colors. I took a step back in surprise. A man, a big one, stood in my room. Out of nowhere. He was muscular, brown-skinned with high cheekbones and had his jet-black hair in a short pageboy cut. But the hair was almost covered by a fantastical headdress made of of the most amazing brightly colored feathers. He was naked except for a loin cloth of rough weave, and had crude symbols painted on his skin in a blackish paint or mud. Amulets hung in layers from his neck and he carried a gourd on a cord around his neck, also decorated thick with symbols, that leaked a greenish smoke. That, and a robust machete that hung across his broad chest that appeared to be about 3 foot long.

I nonchalantly picked up a fork from the sink.

We stood frowning at each other for a long time, looking each other up and down, each of us seeming to try to make sense of the other. Was what I wore was as odd to him as his get-up was to me? In the end, he spoke first. His language was thick and dark, punctuated with lots of consonants. At the same time he spoke them, I 'heard' his meaning between my ears.

"Are you a god–" he asked. "–or a monster?"

My eyebrows raised. Not a question I've been often asked. Hmmm. I watched his eyes scan the empty air around me. Yeah, this guy could see the Ether and the magnetic force lines I carry against my will. I didn't answer right away, but considered.

"Neither, nor, last time I checked." I answered cautiously.

He brought the gourd up in his hands to his mouth and cupping it, blew tenderly into it. Then he breathed in the green smoke deeply. His eyes rolled back into his head for a second, then he released the gourd and focused again on me. "What kind of creature-being are you then?"

"What kind do you think?" I asked non-commitally, probing for information.

"A Seeker?" he asked. I held him with a steely stare that showed more confidence than I actually felt, unable to keep from frowning at the massive knife slung casually across his chest. I offered no answer. "No? A Conduit?"

"What do you mean to say with 'conduit'?" I asked with just enough belligerence to cover the fact that I really _did_ want an answer.

"The Colors themselves crown you."

"They do."

He waited expectantly, respectfully, but I wasn't about to show that I knew diddly-squat about the Ether, and I said nothing. "What my father's father spoke is confirmed-true. The Colors offer much that is not understood by mortals." he spoke sadly. "The question of the cat has been posed. Give me your guidance-council, then." He raised his eyebrows expectantly and waited.

Question? Cat? I was taken by surprise. "I got no advice for you."

"I must have council. If you have come from the colors, it doesn't matter to me what you may be, you must have guidance-council to give."

"I haven't come 'from' _anywhere_, Pal. I live here! _You_ came to _me_!"

He looked confused, then became agitated. "I will receive council now, or will _not_ exit the Colors, although it kill me!" he declared through gritted teeth. I believed him, too. I took another step back. "How am I to protect the tribe? This is my burden. My knowledge-magic alone has not been enough!" The shafts of color behind him tinged orange.

"Well, I'm here to tell you I'm no expert on _cats_!"

His anger grew. "The spells my father and my father's father taught me are empty words against this. The herbs from my mother's Great Wisdom help not! I have tried _all_ the Wisdoms and still more die. Am I to stop trying? No! And no! I have prepared the Pepperpot for the dreaded smoke-and-colors. I have _not_ refused for fear. I have done what is required, and I _**will**_ _have_ _council_." His dark face shone with anger and anguish. The shafts were now a bright red.

Spunk. I admire spunk. "Okay, okay, settle down," I said. "Look, I don't know anything about you, what good would any advice from me do you? I don't even know where you're from!"

"My people live on the Great River," he responded, thrilled to be getting somewhere at last. "where the River of the Jeweled-Bird-of-the-Yellow-Tail enters it. There in the jungle are my people."

"Uh-huh." That helped me _nada_. "And you're their medicine man?"

"Shaman. By line and by skill. What council do you offer on the jaguar-cat?"

I blinked at him. "What cat?" The smoke from his gourd was making me dizzy.

"This problem!" He gestured in front of himself.

"I don't see any problem."

He gawked at me. "This is _not_ natural. This is _new_. Jaguar-that-kills-without-scratching. You **_cannot_** claim there is no problem!" He glared. "I _require_ council on the dead-turned pale!"

"Well, I don't know anything about your problem. It seems we've reached an impasse."

He hesitated. "Will you... _exchange names_ with me?"

"Sure."

"I am called 'Oxmelsa'." he spoke formally.

"I go by 'Kolchak'."

"Kolch'ak", he tasted the strange word and again blew gently on the smoldering fire in the gourd and breathed in the green smoke deeply. He seemed to steel himself. Then he extended his empty hands toward me as if he were offering me something, with his head down he added in a hushed tone, "My... _true_ name is...Mah'at-ek-ohnapat."

Huh.

This was significant. I had heard of this sort of thing on another story I did about a tribe of Native Americans once, years ago; each tribal member had one name for common use, and one magical name kept guarded for reasons that made sense only to their religion. Having given up my true name too easily, and thinking fast, I said importantly; "You don't need to _know_ my true name." Oxmelsa immediately removed his weapon – breaking the substantial twine that held it in place with a quick jerk of his massive arm. I tensed and grasped the tiny fork harder, but he placed the machete quickly on the floor between us, and kneeling onto the floor with one knee, pushed it toward me with both hands, averting my gaze.

He spoke in a woeful tone, "I kneel before you – powerless!"

"_What?__" _The non-sequitur threw me. This man with the obvious strength and grace of a Bengal tiger was on the floor in front of me in an clear attitude of submission. "Stand up, fool!" I said, uncomfortable. He complied. "I'm a _man_, just like you – don't go kneeling in front of your equals!"

He stared at me with wide eyes. "Man? If you are a just a man, where is your Pepperpot?"

"I don't _use_ a pepperpot."

"You enter the colors _**without**_?" he asked in honest amazement, sinking a bit in the knees. "What high magic is this?"

"No magic!" I insisted. "Like I said: just a man!"

"Kolch'ak-who-could-speak-my-true-name; if you are a man, one who walks like I do on the plants-of-the-ground, and natural – take of the smoke." He lifted the gourd-necklace over his head and held it out to me. I eyed it suspiciously for a moment, but then leaned forward, closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

The fumes hit my brain like a freight train, not to mention what it felt like inside my nose. I coughed and staggered a bit, but when I opened my eyes – that's when I understood. The Ether was filling the entire room for me now.

"I get it now! You're high!" I accused.

He shook his head. "Not a High Shaman, just a shaman, but my tribe has no other. I have entered the Trance-of-the-Colors, though it terrifies me."

It was terrifying me, too, if I were honest. I watched in amazement as my 'eyesight' slowly expanded out past the walls of my room to include the adjacent apartments, the floor below mine and the roof above as well, all physical things and persons pierced smoothly and beautifully by shafts of color. _All_ colors, with things unseen to the eye moving gracefully through it all like thick soup. The shafts going through Oxmelsa had settled down again and showed a rainbow of colors. I felt my consciousness move up to a higher level, an _uncomfortable_ one. I didn't have the range that the kobold had let me glimpse, but it was enough to make my cage of bent colors –my magnetic force lines– appear, together with my aura. The aura that every living creature radiated with its distinctive color, overtones, and 'feel'. Mine, like I had seen the time before, extended out some two feet around me. Oxmelsa's aura was visible now as well, strong and deep evergreen in color–

Holy Crow.

His matched mine.

He watched the amazement on my face. "Now we see-together." he said. "My father's father said the Colors have guidance-council. Terrors also; but council for the true-heart. You came here when I called in my distress. You will give me answer to my not-knowing."

It's hard to concentrate while your brain is taking in that much. I stared at him like a dumb fish. Getting your mouth to work while your world view is physically and dimensionally expanding is irksome. For a while, breathing alone was almost more than I could handle. But finally the expansion slowed and seemed to level off at a plateau. Just as I started to find my sea-legs, though, it started again –around Oxmelsa.

Starting close to him and slowly expanding away in all directions, a different room started to present itself. Not clearly, more like super-imposed over what I was seeing of my own room. I was 'seeing' both rooms at once, in the same space. Like I say, not comfortable. He was standing in a sparse hut with a dirt floor, pierced smoothly and beautifully by the color shafts of the Ether just like my room. A number of magical-looking ornaments hung on the walls –a few of which even radiated weak auras of various colors– and thick strings of plants and exotic seed pods hung over his head in the thatch. Over _our_ heads in the thatch. I stood with him.

My overwhelmed mind started to sort things out. I wasn't really there, any more that he was really in my room. We were just communicating with each other through the Ether 'where all the Levels have access'...

A few feet in front of him was a raised pallet with a figure on it. I looked down at it and in spite of everything else my mind was dealing with, my heart sank.

"Oh, friend." I squatted down next to it. "I get it now," It had been a shapely young girl, lovely, innocent. Now she lay naked and stiff and pale. No wounds to be seen except ––two fang punctures on the neck. I wanted to vomit. "Your people have never seen someone die like this before?" I asked quietly.

"Never, Kolch'ak-who-could-speak-my-true-name."

"When did the first victim appear?"

"Three moons ago."

I dreaded the next question. "How many, Oxmelsa?"

His frown went well beyond his mouth to include his eyes and brow. "Three-and-twenty," his voice cracked. "when I secluded myself to prepare for the Smoke-and-Colors. I fear it will be more than that by now."

I nodded gravely. "More of them falling these last days, than in the beginning?"

"Yes! Yes, just as you say!" his eyes were wild with anticipation of an explanation from me.

One had entered the jungle and found them. Damn! All those innocents. With no European folk knowledge to call on, this poor tribe would be sitting ducks. I looked up at him. Poor guy! His physical strength, formidable as it was, wasn't going to help him at all in this next challenge that awaited him. I wondered; did he have what it takes to fight this? Did he have the _gristle_ it takes? This guy was trying to save his tribe from things he didn't understand. There _was_ a reason we were brought together – I _could_ give council. I more than another.

"Then I got some bad news or you..." I began the explanation.

I told him. I told him about the age of the thing, about the reason it killed, about why the victims appeared so pale. I spoke of incredible strength, of the stink, of the lack of damage bullets – well, spears and machetes– would do it since it was dead already. I spoke of the dark of night and the light of daybreak, of daytime dormancy. I showed him my crucifix from under my pillow, I even described garlic although he said they had no such herb. I told of native earth and showed him a stake and mallet I keep on hand as well in my place –for the _need_ if need be.

"And this is _important_; the same has to be done to _every_ _one_ of the victims... before they rise up. Think of it like a... a sickness that can move from one person to another. It spreads. It multiplies. Even after they're dead."

Oxmelsa's eyes were wide as he thirstily drank in my words. I didn't envy him. At that point I felt an emotion I seldom feel –empathy. Empathy right down to my gut. Here was somebody else, about to do what_ I _have done... face what I have faced. In his own little part of the world, using the methods he knew, or could learn from any resource at his disposal.

His eye held a fierce determination now. "We will find the vam-pyre. We will destroy this danger-enemy to the People."

"I believe you will, friend." I smiled at him. "Get started. I'm going to go over and open the window of my room. You know; air it out. You should get outside of this hut and get yourself some fresh air, too. I'm thinking that will make the colors fade for both of us and we can get on with thinking with our physical brains."

He nodded. "The Old Wisdom prescribes seven days of rest, isolation, and meditation after seeing the Colors... but I feel I must act on this much sooner. I will force my way back to my people. I have much to do."

"Your people have a wise shaman. Good luck."

"Thank you for your council-guidance," he said, laying both his palms flat on his chest, "Kolch'ak-who-could-speak-my-true-name. I will teach others what you have told me, in case I _fall_ in the doing of this."

I nodded. "That's prudent. As I said, a wise Shaman." And before I turned to make my way through the vision of his hut over to my window, I added one more thing.

"By the way, **_my_** true name... is _Carl_…"


	3. Balm part 3: Jungle

**Balm**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part 3: Jungle**

* * *

**Okay, this one needs some explanation. This story came about after a challenge from a reader. The challenge was to 'write a story where Carl gets the girl'. That took a long while to percolate, but in the end here it is. If that is not your interest, fair warning, you may want to skip this story. It's handled tastefully (I hope) and is only a small part of the overall story, but it's there.**

* * *

"Why are we stopping? This can't be it. Keep going."

"No, mahn. I take you no further. Now you get out of boat."

I twisted in the narrow motorboat to look back at him. "You said we would travel to the convergence of the main river and the Cujar!"

"We ahre hereh. You get out of boat. Hereh."

Here? I whirled around to squint back at the shore. What I saw there was a small clearing, then – jungle. Dense green leaves. Nothing more. Well, I guessed that was _that_. What did I expect, after all? A reception party? "Okay," I said, gathering my satchel and less than gracefully exiting the tippy boat. "Three days. Same place." My white sneakers sank into many layers of low plants, without ever really reaching soil.

"Crazy mahn." the boat driver commented as he gunned the engine in reverse to pull off the bank.

As the motor-drone faded away, I stood realizing for the first time how _really_ isolated this place was. The jungle looked no different now than it had seven hours ago at the launch. Bird-call slowly started to fill the air, now that the offending mechanical sound of the motor had gone. I took a long, deep breath.

This was the culmination of months of research and digging, airports and jeep rides. I'd had damn little to start with in the beginning. With emphasis on the 'damn'. He had said 'where the Great River becomes one with the River of the Jeweled-Bird-of-the-Yellow-Tail' which turned out – after much wild-goose chasing – not to even be the official name of _any_ river at all, but rather to be what the obscure tribe, itself, called it. Not a big help.

My big break was in what I had seen. His headdress and body-ornamentation, together with a patient and knowledgeable public librarian got me as far as pinpointing him to the Amazon basin. By the way, 'pinpointing' is a laughable word to use in the same sentence with 'Amazon basin'. From there, I made my way to the anthropology departments at various universities. I had seen great deal of magical ornamentation and symbols on the walls, and they were what broke the riddle in the end. And now, here I stood.

Now, I'm not one to require the creature comforts when traveling. However, standing on the bank of the Cujar River, I started to have my doubts about all this. I had with me three days worth of water, of course, and food. But my equipment for camping was a little sparse. I had thought I would stay in the village...

I was standing in a clearing at the bank about the size of a city block. In front of me, the Amazon Rainforest rose majestically like a verdant wall; behind me, the mighty river slid past silently. Neither gave the impression of being especially pleased to see me there. The bright equatorial sun beat down. I stood for a while contemplating the plants I stood on, easily imagining the kind of snakes and venomous spiders that would make their home in a place like this.

A musical whistle sounded. I jerked my head to the side at the sound. _That_ bird-call had come from the ground-level, not the canopy. It was answered in kind by a similar call from the other side of the clearing, also ground-level. I I froze where I stood and my eyes scanned the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing, but I saw nothing. Hmmm. I started realizing that exposure and spiders were maybe farther down my list of dangers than first anticipated. "Oxmelsa!" I called, feeling stupid, calling a man's name out into the expanse of the Amazon basin. "I'm a friend of Oxmelsa!" My voice was puny in the overwhelming expanse of green.

The birds above fell silent at my yelling; the birds below kept themselves hidden. It made sense that they would come to the river bank; if the tribe lived anywhere near here, they would have heard the motor approach. They would have come to investigate. "Friend! Amigo!" I called, my poor heart pounding out a Calypso rhythm. "_Oxmelsa_!"

A rustling in the far underbrush was all that answered me. I whirled around and scanned the leafy green wall that bordered the clearing at the bank. I stood frozen for what seemed like forever.

The first things to emerge were the spear heads, followed in turn by brown-skinned men wearing simple off-white tunics, who seemed to just appear out of nowhere. There were ten or so of stood back near the cover of the jungle on full alert, some with spears and some with blow-pipes pointed at yours-truely. I immediately showed them my hands were empty. "Aló!" I said – quickly exhausting my repertoire of Portuguese vocabulary. "I want to talk to Oxmelsa. _Oxmelsa_. Friend. Yeah?"

There was scattered chatter between them. It didn't sound like Portuguese to me. But it did remind me of the cadence and consonants I had heard from Oxmelsa's mouth– all the while hearing his meaning in a language I _could_ understand, inside my head, as we had stood together in the Ether. I was very encouraged, even though the blow pipes were making me nervous. "Everybody stay calm, boys." I said as they began walking towards me in silent unison. I had a strangle-hold on my fight-or-flight instinct. Where would I run?

Their faces were a mixture of wide-eyed fear and solid-state determination. They yelled a few things at me, all of which I shrugged at, with my hands decisively _up_. They approached me with great caution, as if I could lash out and take them all out in one swipe if I had a mind to, as if I were a wild animal. Odd. I've never _felt_ intimidating.

They came cautiously, never letting their guard down once, until they had me surrounded at the distance of a good spear-jab. By now I was, in fact, nervous. "Calm, boys. Slo-ow and easy. I just want to talk to your medicine man. Oxmelsa. I'm a friend of–"

Quicker than my eye could follow, the fellow in front of me skillfully jabbed his spear into the first quarter inch of my left palm, and leaped back defensively. "Ghaah!" I yelled in surprise, and grabbed the wound with my other hand. The entire troupe crouched defensively, yet strained to see the wound. A trickle of blood squeezed out between my fingers. The effect was instantaneous; all of them collectively released the breaths they had been holding.

* * *

I was escorted as a prisoner after that but no longer mistrusted like their lives depended on it. My noggin puzzled this all out during the hike through the jungle; the vampire that had found them here, deep in the jungle, had probably been caucasian. That may have been the only Caucasian they had ever seen, back this far in the back-waters. Seeing _me_ had probably scared them loopy. I had bound my handkerchief around my bloody palm – my 'proof' I was human. The light under the canopy was as dark as early dusk with greenish light, although up there above somewhere the sun still shown bright. They moved confidently through the light undergrowth, comfortably finding paths where I saw none evident. They had allowed me to bring my satchel, but I had to carry it. Here's news; water is heavy.

We hiked for what seemed like hours. Eventually I caught a whiff of woodsmoke in the air, although I didn't see the village until we were literally upon it. Excited chatter from the warriors brought out the curious. Soon we were surrounded, everyone gawking at me with wide eyes and talking at the same time. I held up my bound hand to show them; the handkerchief was stained with red and a momentary hush fell over the small crowd. Then the chatter returned ten-fold. The bleeding had stopped but the wound throbbed. "Oxmelsa." I stated determinedly, not for the first time during our hike, "Oxmelsa."

We started off again, now at the head of a lively little parade. What started as a village grew to a small city as we passed through it, and the air got lighter and lighter until we came out into a large clearing. By now we had acquired many dozens of curious folk. Here in the clearing, the huts were larger and finely built, colored in some cases with symbols in many colors. We approached one of the more elaborately decorated ones and my captors began singing out news of our arrival.

A large man came out of the portal, and the crowd fell silent in a heartbeat. Adorned in feathers over his simple tunic, he looked much older than the last time I had 'seen' him all those years before. He now looked haggard, physically punished, but stronger in spirit and purpose. Yeah. Vampire-hunting does that to a man _– if _he lives to tell about it. He stared at me in shock as the warriors fell over themselves to tell him their story. All through this, I watched him closely. He would have no idea how far I'd come, no idea what I had labored through, to stand in this village. At length they finished the narrative. All stood silent for a few beats. "Hi." I added, with my jaw set.

The shaman staggered forward and, after crossing his arms at the forearm, grasped both my hands. _"__Kolch__'__ak-maht-malis!"_ he exclaimed. The assembled gasped. Oxmelsa examined my bandaged hand and barked something I didn't understand. A servant woman scurried away in haste and returned directly with a slurry of crushed leaves, with which she gently tended to my wound as Oxmelsa addressed the crowd. They hung on his every word, with occasional murmurs and gasps. "Oxmelsa, we have to talk." I said, but –understandably– he didn't understand me. I have no idea what the crushed leaves were, but the throbbing started abating right away. The servant-woman was binding my hand in a new cloth securely. "Thank you." I told her, but she kept her face down.

The shaman spoke to me seriously, though what he _said_ was anybody's guess. "I have to talk to you about the Ether. Remember? The colors?" I made motions of the shafts that passed, unseen, through all space. He agreed enthusiastically. "You know how to expose them – how to _enter_ the colors. I have to know what plant you burn to get yourself into that hyper-aware state." I explained. "That's why I'm here. Teach me." His stare was blank. I made motion of a gourd in front of me, holding it and pretending to inhale from the imaginary smoke. "This." I pointed to the gourd that was not in my hand. "This. What is it?" The crowd whispered nervously among themselves.

Oxmelsa again crossed his forearms and then grasped both my hands. He spoke formally about something – I hadn't a clue what – and stepped back to motion me inside the house. I entered, as he talked rapidly to the warriors and the crowd, pointing to various people with instructions. They all scattered at his bidding. He then entered the hut as well, in company with a few of the older men from the crowd. He bowed an invitation to sit in a circle of ornately carved wooden stools where the other elders were taking place. Oxmelsa, joining us, spread his hands and spoke to me again at length. He then waited expectantly for me to answer. I stared at him blankly. A ripple of discomfort moved through the other men.

Over the next few minutes, more elders arrived, each one delivered by an out-of-breath villager. When one of these arrived, the circle of men seemed especially pleased, and they bid him sit next to me. They all leaned forward on their stools.

Oxmelsa spoke to him in great detail about something, the new-comer grunted in agreement at various points. Once the shaman was done, he motioned the new-comer's attention to me. The man turned to me and greeted me with an unsure smile and a shaky "_Falo... pouco portugu__ê__s_." then after some thought, he added, "_Bem-vindo._" he searched a bit farther for "_Diga ...por que neste... ponto_…?"

It sounded like broken Portuguese! I was thrilled –having come _prepared_– and rustled in my satchel for my Portuguese/English dictionary. "Just show me," I urged, placing it in his hands. He looked at me quizzically.

Curious, he flipped through the small book... holding it upside down.

My heart sank.


	4. Balm part 4: Feast

**Balm**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part four: Feast**

* * *

The celebrating began soon after. I sat in the small circle of men on stools around the open fire in the disappearing light late that evening. Apparently some of the instructions Oxmelsa had shouted out back at the start was the Amazon equivalent of 'Go kill the fatted calf!', which in this case turned out to be more of the fatted wild boar. The entire city had turned out. There had been feasting and dancing and singing – all of which I watched with detached frustration, but which, as I came to understand, was in _my_ honor. I was not happy being the center of attention, and the... the _lauding_ of the people made me downright uncomfortable. I couldn't blame them, though, if you think about it. This gave them another chance to celebrate what I assumed was a victory over the invading vampire and the terror he had wrought. Celebration for any small part _I_ had played in their success I guessed could be forgiven.

And I didn't know the words to forbid it, anyway.

By this point I had acquired, quite to my surprise, a cape-let of brightly colored feathers which was placed over my suit-coat. I had been offered a feathered headdress, as well, which I had flatly refused to wear; I had a hat already, and one I'm fairly fond of. After hours of dancing and speeches, they had settled down enough to sit again in the circle and try to communicate with me. What followed was an hour of charades by fire light and frustration. Eventually I dropped out of the conversation altogether, and the elders had continued on their own.

I had understood rough topics of the conversation, at first anyway. Oxmelsa had described with motions my magnetic force lines that are visible only in the Ether. A while after that, the subject of the vampire hunt had occupied a good deal of time and animated discussion. Now, there was serious discussion on... well, I wasn't so clear on what. But each man seemed to feel the weight of the topic and offered council in turn. They stared at me in silence for a good part of it.

I, myself, stared only into the embers of the camp fire as they chattered away in their incomprehensible language, and floated off into my own thoughts. There we were, back in Chicago, with all our computers and digital cameras and cocky pride in our technology, but the Ether was a complete mystery to us. The Ether; around us all the time, but unseen, not understood, and from all I could reason, extremely powerful. I was counting on _that_ part. Yet who had access to the Ether, was it us back in Chicago, bristling with robots and satellites? No, it was these people here, with their campfires and spears and feathered headdresses.

Folk knowledge: one / Space-age technology: zero. I sighed.

The sun had gone by now. The prattle of their discussion droned in the background and threatened to lull me off to sleep.

Oxmelsa's servant-woman appeared in front of me offering a drinking gourd of a frothy liquid. She had been bringing me food the whole celebration long, but had each time kept her head down. Now in the fire-light, she stared at me full in the face for the first time. I startled out of my train of thought to find her squatting in front of me. She looked up at me with a mix of amazement and fear, tinged with fascination. I was surprised myself; now that she was so close I could not help but notice that her eyes were huge and black as pitch – her irises being so dark as to blend with her pupils and give the illusion that she had no irises at all. She looked to be some 20-25 years old. The huge black eyes, together with extremely high cheekbones gave this petite woman from the backwaters of the Amazon a graceful beauty that would put any New York fashion model to shame. At length, I took the gourd from her and nodded my thanks.

Oxmelsa was deep in discussion with the elders. He seemed to be trying to convince them of his opinion, but they were worried. Anything more than that much shot right over my head and out into Space. The drink was slightly bitter, as well as slightly alcoholic, and went down real easy.

Not long afterwards, the men rose. Each one spoke a short piece to me –of which I understood nothing– with Oxmelsa going last. His face and voice were very serious. He clapped his hands twice and a number of young men appeared carrying short torches. We moved as a group through the city center, and eventually to a sturdy living-hut. There, at the open door, Oxmelsa made motion that I would stay here. From the flickering of the flames, I could see a raised pallet inside covered thick with a pile of fresh leaves. Sealey Posturepedic – Amazon style. "Thanks," I said, "Let me think this out, I'll get some shut-eye and we can try again fresh in the morning."

At this, his servant-woman –who had accompanied the group to my apartment– stepped forward. Oxmelsa brought her over and obviously formally introduced her to me; "Pohkan'taish" he said.

Not a total oaf in the social niceties, I tipped my hat to her and said "Ma'am." which elicited murmurs of approval from all around. Oxmelsa crossed his forearms and grasped my hands once more and spoke seriously for a few lines, then turned abruptly and was gone into the night together with the elders, the torch-boys, and _all_ of the light.

It was as dark as the inside of a cow.

I stood there for a few beats before I realized the woman had _not_ left. "Umm..." I started. "Po– Pok–"

"Pohkan'taish"

"Yeah, that..."

She guided me inside, deftly closing the door which I would not have managed so well in the inky blackness. I heard her kneel on the floor just inside the door. He was lending me a servant? She talked to me in her incomprehensible language and then rose and approached me in the dark. She spoke seriously, with me not catching anything except for an occasional '_Kolch__'__ak-maht-talis_'. Her tone was smooth and her words were a mystery, but her intent was not; she came right up to me and continued her hushed word stream. She placed her hands tenderly on my upper shoulders.

"Oh. So you're the virgin they're sacrificing to the returning hero, huh?" I said. I shook my head. "Don't be scared, Honey. Don't worry, nothing's going to happen to you." She persisted in caressing my upper arms. Reluctantly, I removed her hands. "Look, Darlin', I'm flattered," I said, breaking in to her little prepared speech. "I really am. And your boss is very generous, But I can't even talk to you. And I think basic _communication_ is kinda neces––" She placed her fingertips on my lips in the universal sign of 'shut up, fool', then once I had complied, she replaced her fingertips with a brush of her own lips. Then her mouth.

Oh _my_.

Warm and welcoming it was, and after only a few seconds of this, I honestly couldn't remember what it was I had wanted to say.


	5. Balm part 6: Absence

**Balm**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part six: Disappearance**

* * *

I don't believe I'd slept that well in years. I was so deep that in the morning, I woke disoriented. My lady was awake and watching me with those incredibly large black eyes. I relaxed back onto the soft leaves. "Good morning, beauty." I greeted her. She responded with a smile and some similar phrase; what exactly, I'll never know. She kissed me tenderly, then raise up on one elbow to study my head – specifically my hair – closely in the sunlight. She had more than a few comments to make on the subject, as she stroked it admiringly. I chuckled. I suppose red hair in the sunlight shines something extraordinary when you've never seen anything but black your whole life. I enjoyed the idea that my old body was suddenly _exotic_.

Now with the advantage of daylight, I could see the tattoos on her that had been covered by the tunic yesterday. I perused them with interest. Symbols in black ink, probably for protection or fertility. Nice. Also exotic – for me. A woman, naked, but still 'decorated'. I wished I had known about about the markings last night. Then again – nah. _Nothing_ could have improved last night.

Her eyes were exploring me as only her hands had been able to last night. She spent a long moment frowning and touching my morning beard stubble, making comments on it. She seemed surprised to find no tattoos. She examined me closely, peering intently at my hands on both sides, then kissing my palms devotedly. I smiled broadly; I hadn't experienced this level of interest from a women in years. Sex, sure, I'd had that, but this beauty wanted to _know_ me.

In the biblical sense, as well, it turned out. I rolled her over and took her once more. Slow and smooth and sweet. So _sweet_. This was no virgin – she was experienced in pleasuring a man.

After we had recovered, I rolled up onto an elbow to face her. "So, tell me," I said conversationally, "are you a hooker who serves food, or a cook 'with benefits'?" She grinned at me, delighted, in response. "Actually, I don't even care." I told her. I felt 20 years old again. Better even. A wiser, more grounded version of my younger self. It didn't get better than this.

She sat quietly on a corner of the floor watching me shave that morning, with the brush and razor from my satchel. For some reason this seemed to fascinate her.

Once I was presentable, I sat on the bed and pulled out the beef jerky I had packed, offering her some. She refused, but once she saw I was eating it, she cautiously smelled a piece and tried a nibble. She frowned and gave me a terse commentary, then disappeared out of the hut. Within ten minutes she was back with two bowls of some sort of thick stew-like dish. She placed one on the low table and directed me to one of the stools. I had learned the stiff-leaf-as-eating-utensil trick at the party the night before, and –to my credit, less clumsily than the night before– I folded it under my index finger forming a spoon-like tool. I tasted the dish cautiously, but it was good. Boiled plant of some type, but with a flavorful spice I did not recognize. I dug in, surprised at how hungry I was.

She was pleased with my appetite and took a place back on the floor with her bowl. "Don't sit on the floor! Come join me," I indicated another stool. At first she did not understand, but once I had made my meaning clear, her eyes went wide and she refused, pointing to herself then to the dirt floor, together with a few lines of terse commentary. "That makes no sense," I protested. "Why should you humble yourself on the floor?" I insisted, but she was resolute; she belonged on the floor.

"Maybe you _are_ a hooker..." I said, "Poor thing. There's no _difference_ between us, Darlin'." I picked up my bowl and joined her on the floor. Her eyes went wide with amazement, and I smiled at her pleasantly as I continued eating. She sat frozen for a long while. Eventually, she ate too. But she wouldn't look at me the whole time we ate.

Once sated, I said, "I have to talk to Oxmelsa. Without the dancing and feasting this time. Can you take me to him?" Her response was a long commentary that included the name Oxmelsa a few times and ended with her holding up three fingers; pinkie, ring, and middle. I puzzled. "Well, I'm guessing that doesn't mean three o'clock this afternoon..." She looked satisfied that the message had been delivered, but I was no wiser by it.

I did not meet with the shaman that day. He was no-where to be found._ Trust me_, I looked.

I did find the fellow with the broken Portuguese, in the big open meeting area where the dancing had been the night before, and tried again to talk with him. I spoke slowly and loudly, even tried speaking English with a thick Portuguese accent, but it didn't help. He just stared at me in wonder. It was as if a wall stood between us. Invisible, but a real wall just the same. A wall we could _see_ through and _hear_ through; but a wall we could not communicate through. And it was that way with every person I met. They were all friendly enough, seemed anxious to please, but no one could understand me.

And I couldn't find Oxmelsa.

After hours of this frustration, I sat down on a bench to mop my brow with my handkerchief. I stuffed it mostly back in my pocket and leaned forward to rest my head in my hands. What now? Here I was –finally here!– and yet I was in fact no closer to my goal. I don't know how long I sat there, eyes closed, my mind spinning elsewhere. But I did feel my handkerchief as it was ripped from my pocket. I started in surprise, and saw a grey and black monkey about as large as my forearm, high-tailing it (literally) away from me with my red kerchief clutched in his long fingers, calling out his delight as he ran. "Hey!" I yelled. I was on my feet in a flash. But he was already in a tree, laughing at me and rolling his prize around in his hands, clumsily imitating me mopping my brow. "Give that _**back**_, you _scalawag!"_

But he showed no such intention. By now, two other monkeys had noticed his fun and raced through the treetops to try to wrestle the red cloth from him. He screamed and fled with amazing agility just ahead of them, in a wild chase through the deep green leaves. Within seconds, they were far away in the overhead jungle.

After all this, I was more careful with my camera and recorder…

That evening, I poured my frustration into love-making. And yeah, that's what I was calling it. The word 'sex' just didn't cut it. I gathered my frustration about traveling all this long way and still not finding the _one_ man I needed information from, about my not being able to _talk_ to _**anybody**_, about the pick-pocket wildlife, even my frustration about what was happening to poor Tony all those miles away in Chicago, _all_ of it. All of it.

And I emptied it into passion. It was deep and it was sweet. She was a balm on my frazzled nerves.

And afterwards I held her.

You know, I could really get used to this after-glow thing.


	6. Balm part 7: Pocahontas

**Balm**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part seven: Pocahontas**

* * *

The next morning I watched from the bed as she brushed her long black hair with a tightly bound bundle of split reed till it shone. Who needs a plastic comb? I watched with interest the manner she deftly braided it together with a long colorful band and tied the braids up and around her head. Oh, she was lovely, and this seemed to form a crown on her head. Or maybe halo was a better word.

I felt I could have spent the day watching her. She was fascinating. She had access to nothing, it seemed; no electricity, no corner Deli, certainly no dish washer, yet she kept the house. She produced food each meal time and the place was as tidy and comfortable as you please. She managed to run the place using little more than the plants she found around her. Resourceful lady. And she managed to look beautiful while she did it.

"Pocahontas," I started –as this was what I had taken to calling her– "I _need_ to see Oxmelsa." Another explanation in gibberish and she held up just the pinkie and ring finger. I suddenly understood. We were counting down; three _days_ she had meant. What the hell?! He was _gone_? Where to, just when I needed him? I couldn't imagine he'd had a _business_ trip just come up!

She watched from the floor with her knees tucked daintily under her as I did my shaving again. Breakfast appeared. Continuing to be stubborn, she sat on the floor to eat. Equally stubborn, I did the same.

I killed time walking the city, then returning to my hut. Walking again. Returning again. I was anxious and felt time was running out while I sat in the Amazon twiddling my thumbs. When I came across people on these walks, the adults always stopped their talking and stood in respectful silence as I passed, all attempts at verbal communication seemed to have been voted to be beyond hope. The small children just stared at me with wide, amazed eyes – usually from a position safely behind their mother's legs. I felt like an oddity. It didn't help my mood to see a grey and black monkey upside-down in a tree overhead hanging lazily by his tail, waving a red tattered red handkerchief in the humid air (some good 20 feet outside my reach).

I swear he was grinning.

That afternoon Pocahontas entered the hut to find me tapping my foot, agitated, staring at the notes I had scrawled on my notepad, and tried to soothe me with rubbing my neck. One thing lead to another, and we found ourselves back on the leaves for some afternoon delight. Same as that first night, she wore nothing under the tunic but her sweet self. Was this to allow me easy access to her sweet Jewel whenever the urge presented itself to me? _Yeah_, I mused. _I__'__m sure that__'__s it._

The food she kept bringing me was incredible. Various boiled plant-stuffs that were sometimes creamy, sometimes spicy, always surprising and basically darned good. Granted I didn't have a clue what it was – maybe didn't _want_ to know in the cases of the meat – but the meat was roasted to perfection and was smoky and salty and tender and flavorful all at once. Larry's Deli, round the corner from me up north, couldn't even hold a candle. Part of my mind toyed playfully with the idea of what she could produce on a gas stove, if she could manage _this_ off an open fire...

As the days went on, we grew quite close. Surprisingly quickly, now that I think about it. I hoped I wasn't fooling myself, but I was convinced she had _feelings_ for me. No, I was sure of it, feelings that went beyond the physical stuff – beyond what the job required of her, you know. The way she beamed whenever she watched me, the sweet honesty I felt from her when I held her in the after-glow, the way her face lit up whenever I entered a room. It felt good. Not my experience a lot, if I'm truthful, that somebody is _delighted_ just to see me walk in a room… Something else I could really get used to.

Then I noticed the way _I_ felt when _she_ walked in. The air crackled between us. Dis-orienting.

One night I had a dream and woke her. Yeah, it was one of _those_. Poor thing, I think I frightened her. I guess that's a consequence of sleeping the whole night with 'ol Carl. You get to see the good, the bad, and the unsettled. Probably why the hookers back home don't bother...

On the morning of the third day, she had set out my shaving brush and razor to their place before I had even rolled out of bed. After shaving, while pulling on my shirt, I noticed her examining my tie which she had hung around her neck, fumbling with it and folding it, trying to make it look like it had yesterday. I chuckled. "Like this." I said, and offering her a hand, pulled her up. Standing behind her, I put my arms around her shoulders in a light hug, and tied the knot loosely around her neck, my fingers following the long-practiced motions. "First here... Then this goes over and around here… Once more… Now down. And there you have it! See? Simple." I lifted it off her and slipped it over my own head. She beamed at me. Damn, she was lovely.

After breakfast, she busied herself bringing in fresh sleeping leaves – which she had attended to each day – and then attended the fire in front of the hut. This fire seemed to spring to life under her care early in the morning and burn happily till sundown – always boiling some pot, or roasting some unknown root, or grilling some piece of meat skewered through the middle and anchored into the ground at an angle at the edge of the heat. She was a real wizard with this fire-thing. This time she checked the heat coming off the red embers, then grabbed some fresh greens from a pile of them that had been sitting to the side on a large leaf, and dropped the lot onto the glowing embers. Pungent grey smoke billowed. It smelled just _wonderful, _probably an herb plant. She deftly suspended a string of river fish in the middle of the smoke, and adjusted them to maximize the contact with the scented smoke. The smoke curled and cured, flavored and slow-roasted. Even though I had just finished breakfast, my mouth watered in anticipation. She glanced up and found me watching, and a smile lit up her face.

While the fish smoked, she settled down in the court-yard on a mat on the ground with an arm-full of what looked like dry grass. I sat idly by on a stool and watched with fascination as the useless-looking pile of grass was transformed into a tidy low basket, ready for the filling, by her nimble fingers. She was amused with my fascination. But I found her fascinating. On _many_ levels.

I had toyed with the fantasy of rescuing her. From this life of hers, you know. She wouldn't need to be a hooker up north. It wouldn't have been the first time I could have been accused of such a plan… I guess I'm guilty of_ latent chivalry,_ somehow. I could… I could… Hmm. I watched her skillful fingers deftly pull the dry grass into the shape she wanted. Effortless in her hands.

Hmm… I didn't have a lot up north to offer her, material-wise. Then again, my room up there was more than an pounded-dirt hut!

And I did love the way the air _crackled_…

"Pocahontas," I said spontaneously, "what would you say to living in Chicago?" She looked up from her work and smiled broadly at me. I grinned in reply. I knew she didn't understand a word of what I said, but if I _forgot_ to know that, I could pretend that her smile meant she was delighted with the idea. I cast around for a way to communicate this. I pointed, "You – me," I said and linked my index fingers. She smiled and said something, and linked hers in agreement. "It's feasible, you know. All they need is a marriage certificate..." (Had I actually _said_ that?) "And English isn't so hard to speak. I could teach you how. _Look__!_" I pulled the stool over to where she sat. I sketched a quick outline of a fish in the ground with a stick; "Fish." I instructed. She looked at me questioningly. "Fish." I said pointing.

"Fich," she attempted.

"Fish." I annunciated, encouraging her.

She grinned at me. Oh my, she was lovely. "Fisch," she answered.

"That's right!"

She laughed. A clean, high sound that thrilled my very skin. She pointed to the drawing, "Katcht'ko."

I frowned skeptically. "Easy for _you_ to say..."

She made tsk-tsk sounds. "_Katcht__'__ko._"

I took a deep breath, "Katch-ho." She squealed her delight and hugged my leg. We laughed together.


	7. Balm part 8: Preparation

**Balm**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part eight: Preparation**

* * *

The fourth morning, I woke to find Pocahontas carrying in a vessel of water that was steaming in the cool morning temperatures. I rolled up onto one elbow and reached out to her, suddenly realizing I needed to feel her in my arms in order to start the day… any day. She joined me. As I enfolded her, I realized with a start that she had tears on her cheeks. "What's the matter?" I asked. But she started talking to me in serious tones, stroking my face longingly and staring into my eyes like she were trying to get her fill of them while she could. At length, she rose and, taking a clump of sturdy moss, began to wash me with the warm water. I tried to help, but as so often these last three days, she indicated she knew what she was doing and I was to lay back and accept her attentions. The warm water was scented with some woodsy herb and made my skin tingle subtly. It was all incredibly relaxing, her rubbing gently, chanting softly, at times breaking into almost a melody in her talking, encouraging me to roll this way and that, till soon I was clean as a new penny.

After this, she offered me a small gourd which appeared to contain thin tar, and sat back on her ankles to watch. I sniffed it but didn't have a clue what I was to do with it. She watched my confusion and encouraged me with gestures and words, but I remained clueless. Finally with a tolerant smile she took it back from me and, dipping two fingers into the slurry, she began making symbols on my chest and upper arms in the black paint.

I watched this with interest, and before too long recognized some of the patterns I had seen on Oxmelsa back then in the Ether. "I see Oxmelsa today," I stated, rather than asked. "Are we entering the Ether?" Finally! _Finally_ some progress. Her brow constricted in discomfort and she said something that contained Oxmelsa's name, all the while holding on to me with both hands. Her eyes started to fill up again and I reached out to comfort her, but she turned away and pulled herself from my reach. She turned to decorating my back at that point, all the while singing a haunting melody; high and airy it was, and my skin almost _prickled_ hearing it.

When she appeared finished, I rose enthusiastically and pulled on my trousers and shoes and gathered my camera and recorder. Today I would go with out my shirt, unless I wanted to return to Chicago with odd symbols in black stained on it. She brought me the colored feather cape-let and draped it ceremoniously over my shoulders. She then lead me out of the hut and through the city. People out this early stopped when they saw us and bowed their heads respectfully till we passed by. We wound out and down a path that lead into the jungle. Before long, we came to a group of four warriors, decked out in their feathery best and carrying massive spears. Whether these weapons were functional for prisoner transport or just honor-guard props was not clear. They had obviously been waiting for us, and without a word spoken between anyone, Pocahontas released me into their care, and after a heart-felt embrace, she turned and hurried back toward the city without looking back.

We proceeded farther into the jungle, now the four warriors placed around me. Their weapons were thankfully pointed outward defensively, not inward threateningly, as we walked. After half an hour of this, we came upon another group of warriors, also plumed to the nines, this time eight in number. Another transfer with not a word spoken. More hiking, with me now the center of an entire ring of defense.

At length we approached an isolated hut. For all the pageantry of the honor guard, the destination was a relatively simple, albeit large, hut. More warriors surrounded the hut. They bowed stiffly as I approached, and without a word –which wouldn't have helped anyway– they opened the massive wooden door of the structure and let me pass inside. The door was closed resolutely behind me.

I stood in a medium sized ante-chamber with another door in front of me. Magical amulets hung on all sides. But the sensation I welcomed most was the effervescent, acrid smell that greeted me.

I recognized it. I entered.


	8. Balm part 9: Ceremony

**Balm**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part nine: Ceremony**

* * *

Oxmelsa sat tranquilly cross-legged on a mat on the dirt floor, decorated as I was, seeming to be in meditation. On the floor in front of him was a collection of dried plants, bowls of different powders, amulets, and glowing embers of a wood fire. I took my place on the mat on the floor opposite him and waited. Outside at a distance, drums started sounding. Low and slow, resonant and droning.

His eyes opened slowly and greeted me silently with a dip of the head. He then began to mix the powders and seeds on a hollow gourd, and with low chanting accompanying the process, deftly lifted an ember with two sticks and dropped it into the gourd as well. He continued his chanting. A mossy-green smoke started to rise from the gourd.

I knew what was coming... but that didn't help.

Having the Ether reveled to you is kind of like riding the wildest of roller-coasters blindfolded. You don't know which way you're going to be pulled or plunged next – but it's your _mind_ not your body that's getting the sick stomach. Space around me took on an additional dimension, much to my discomfort. This was my third time into the Ether, and I could see the transformation did _not_ get easier with practice. I gritted my teeth and panted shallowly. My mind's 'eyesight' expanded out past the walls of the hut, to see the lovely colored shafts of the Ether filling all space, and piercing the bodies and auras of the warriors and the drummers out some 100 feet from where we sat. Our matching auras appeared also, dark evergreen in color. Oxmelsa's was pierced, as was normal, by the colored Ether, and my magnetic force lines bending the shafts of color into a bizarre cage around me, as was _not_ normal.

But that's another story.

Oxmelsa recovered from the transformation first. After a few minutes, it does become easier, but never really _easy_. It can be compared to trying to balance on top of a soap bubble; you are hyper-aware of needing to keep your mental balance, but if you spread your mind out in a 'wider stance' you _can_ think. And talk, which is handy. Especially if you're trying to communicate outside of your language-group.

"Well-come, Kolch'ak-who-is-bound-to me." He crossed his forearms as before. "We meet once more with the dreaded Smoke-and-Colors between us." Oxmelsa continued to speak his language with his mouth, but his meaning appeared simultaneously in my head, near the base of my skull.

"Where the _HELL_ did you disappear to for three days?" I demanded, by way of greeting, "I needed to talk to you!"

"I realized this. Why otherwise would you have traveled to this jungle from your far-home? But the words in your mouth are useless. The elders and I reasoned-together that I must enter the dreaded Smoke-and-Colors together with you, so your words would mold-to-have-meaning. To enter the trance, the Old Wisdom instructs three-days of meditation and preparation, fasting and song. I have followed the path, and the Colors have come at my bidding. You also, I assume, have been in meditation and preparation these three-days, truth?"

"Oh. Yeah." I answered. "I did all the meditating I needed to." My theory – although it was only a theory – was the Ether was not that hard to enter once the drug contained in that blasted gourd hit the ol' brain cells. Personally, I never had time for meditating, and fasting was right out.

"I'm sure my Pohkan'taish has given whatever you needed for your three-day preparation, truth?"

"Yeah, that and more," I said with a smile.

"I am pleased."

"Oxmelsa, I need to talk to you. You are the only human I know of, who knows how to enter the Ether –the Colors– at will."

"No one _wants_ to enter the Colors." he said with finality.

"I agree with you," I said with a wry smile. "But in-spite of that, sometimes there _is_ a need. Remember, you had to enter to ask me what was killing your tribe back then. I was able to help."

"Truth."

"Now _I_ need help. I got a problem back home."

"And you think _I_ have council for _your_ not-knowing?" he asked, surprised.

"Well, I know you can get yourself into this hyper-aware state. I'd like you to teach me how that's done. I would like to have... access."

"This must be high-important. We risk our lives when we enter the Colors. They are dangerous-beyond-dangerous. Men can be swept away by their power. Or they can awaken _monsters_."

"Trust me, I'm no stranger to _that_ fact. Try not to breathe the smoke deeply, I think just having it burning in the room seems to let us communicate, hopefully without making us noticeable by... anything _else.__" _My mind glanced around the Ether. There were the normal shapes, noises, and 'tastes' flowing through and between the beams, but considerably fewer in number compared to what I had seen that time in Chicago. Amazon isolation may have its advantages.

"This is the reason why you have come to us? Did you not learn the ceremony from your father?" he asked.

"Ahh... " I stumbled. "... no."

"I see. Then he must have died before passing on the secrets. This is bad – this a Shaman must not do. Some men like to hold the Secrets to themselves for too long. Some men feel powerful-special this way. But if he is suddenly-died, the tribe itself looses important knowledge." He shook his head sadly, "He failed your tribe."

"Yeah… well." I frowned, at a loss for a comment. "There's a long list of things _that _one failed at." I returned to the topic at hand, "Can you teach me?"

"What I have on this earth is yours." he said simply. "As is correct. I will teach-prepare."

"I'm grateful."

He showed me the dried plants in front of him. "Most important are the mystic-bark of the _bajung__'__wa_ and the peppercorn of the _chauduri_, which are combined-melded in the first step of the ceremony..." he began. "Songs must accompany the process from beginning to end..."

I was already taking notes in my notebook. How does a body spell '_bajung__'__wa'? _Maybe the ceremony was critical after all, and I meant to head home with a sure-fire way to enter the Ether. I was taking no chances. "I can put your songs ... in this box I have. The plant-stuffs I'll need to take home with me." He watched my jotting with great interest. "I'm sure your servant-woman will gather them for me, she's been most helpful... Go on."

"Servant-woman?" he asked looking up, confused. "I have none of this."

"Of course you do," I said off-handedly, glancing up at him from my attention on the notebook. "I meant the woman you dropped off for me – at my hut the evening I arrived."

He smiled proudly. "No servant-woman. Pohkan'taish is my _wife_."

My brain seized up.

It was a number of beats before I could even get my mouth to move again. I stared at him in horror. "Your––" I faltered. "You... You ...! _Wife_?" I saw red. Literally. The Ether around me for 360 degrees turned cherry red. "You ––_**handed**_ me... ––your _**wife?**_ Are you mad? Didn't you realize what I would _do_ to her?! What the hell were you _**thinking**_?!" My hands were out flat on the ground on either side of me for balance, even though I was seated on the ground. It didn't help; physical balance couldn't really help my mental balance at that point.

"I was thinking she would again-seal the bond we created; with her body a link between us-two. Was I mistaken in this?"

"I'm not the man who makes a habit of _bedding_ other men's _**wives**_**!**" I roared.

"She is my wife. You and I are name-bound," he said simply.

I stared at him, unable to take it in. "Where _I_ come from – ! – a man _guards_ his wife for _**himself**__!" _I spat_. "Jealously!__!__"_

"Here, too," he agreed calmly. "But not when two are _bound_. It is the Way of Things."

"_**What?!**__" _Rage, loss, disgust, betrayal, guilt, confusion – go ahead; pick one. I wasn't quite sure which emotion I was feeling, but I was feeling it _**strongly**_. The Ether in my general vicinity _glowed_.

"Are we not name-bound? Have we not exchanged true-names?"

"Well, I _guess_ so, but–"

"Therefore it is so. Here you have access to all I possess, and I to all you possess."

"Well my people don't go sharing––– " I sputtered to get the word to come out, "–_wives_ just because they know each other's first _names_, Pal!"

" 'First-names'," He tasted the phrase. "Your words are good. The true-name is of first importance–"

"Are you saying Pocahontas believes she belongs to _both_ of us?!" I cried.

"As is correct."

"Listen to me, here! My people don't _do_ that!"

"Your customs are strange."

"Not to _**me**_ they're not!" I growled.

He considered this, but dismissed it. "It is the Way of Things."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Huh." Silence hung in the Ether for a large number of beats. "Well you're welcome to anything I got in the world, Bud, but you may be disappointed to hear there's_ very little_." I grated, "And there's no lovely _wife_."

He dismissed this too. "The Way of Things is not only about possessions-objects. Small-piece. No. It is about sharing with another what one has in hands and _mind_, both-bonded become stronger by the exchange. A man is more than possessions-objects. He holds wisdom and experience; knowledge. '_Two staffs bound-tight__ side-by-side__, will not break in battle_' " he quoted. "We-two have exchanged true-names, in this we are bound, by trust and by magic, beyond-beyond. This you must surely know already."

I sat there astounded. He was actually okay with all this. I was _not_. Call me a slave to my culture – hey, I've been called much worse. I was pretty sure this was a new trick this old dog was _not_ going to be able to learn.

We spent some three hours in the Ether. I know that doesn't sound like a lot, but believe you me – it's about all a body can handle. He taught me the ceremonies, showed me the proportions, drew me the symbols. I soaked it up like a sponge. Choosing to feel numb rather than feel the emotions that were threatening from the sidelines, I focused all my faculties on getting this right. I had just this one shot.

Afterwards we spent seven days recovering, slowly re-entering the world of the physical brain, as if we were avoiding the bends. We were weak as kittens. The men outside cared for us until we were able to care for ourselves.

As soon as we were out of the Ether, the men outside opened the hut and let in sweet air. Both Oxmelsa and I were shaking, lying on our mats on the pounded-earth floor. The guards cool-sponged us with water-soaked moss until our fevers faded. The water burned. This water acted like it had salt in, although I can't imagine it actually did, and when it touched my skin, I inhaled sharply through clenched teeth. The plain water pained me as if my skin had been covered in tiny cuts, and salt water had run across it. I welcomed this sharp, clean burning on my skin. I drank it in. Focusing hard on this clean pain dulled the complicated ache that I felt deeper inside. The feathered guards tended to us gently, later on bringing us food and water for days. Oxmelsa meditated. I stewed. As we improved and gained strength, he sang the necessary songs into my recorder, I photographed the symbols.

The men followed Oxmelsa's bidding and gathered the plants I would be taking back. By now I had one thought in my mind: get out of this damnable jungle. Get home. Oxmelsa had told me while in the Ether that I would be accompanied back to 'the Portuguese' by a small flotilla of canoes. I was ready.

Beyond ready.


	9. Balm part 10: Departure

**Balm**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part ten: Departure**

* * *

My last hurtle was this though; I still needed to return to the jungle city. I still needed to... see her. Not because I wanted to, I didn't. Because I needed to. She was not in my hut when they delivered me there. _Of course!_ I chided myself, for even being disappointed. _Of course! She would be waiting at Oxmelsa__'__s house for __**his**__ return. _I felt hollow for all of two seconds before I clamped down on the unwelcome feeling, resolutely shut it out of my mind, and got busy with the task at hand. I gathered my things, my satchel and a good bundle of plant-stuffs that was my charge and my burden.

The feather cape-let I left behind, folded on the floor in the corner where we had eaten breakfast together.

Then suddenly, she was standing in front of me, all smiles and excited talk. My breath caught in my throat. The damned _air_ set in to crackling again. My, she was lovely. Time seemed to slow to a stop and hang in the air as I looked at her. Many emotions shot across my bow, but I let them come and pass by me without feeling them or even acknowledging them. "Yeah, so... ah.." I said, getting ahold of myself and avoiding her gaze. "I guess this is going to be goodbye..." She made to embrace me, but there was _no way_ I was letting her get that close. "So, Oxmelsa told me the whole story. And... I understand, now, where you're coming from. Ha, I have to tell you, Darlin', I never say that comin'." I chuckled and shifted uncomfortably. "I'm a... an old-fashioned cuss, Pocahontas. An' anyway..." I trailed off.

She forced me to look at her with a gentle hand on each side of my face. She spoke seriously for a few lines, but of course, I was none the wiser.

"Yeah, well. I'm heading home… ah… I'm glad you've got a good man. And I know that _you and I_ are... well… … it's kinda _**unusual**__,_ what you and I are." I smiled half-heartily. "Look, I have something I want to give you." I held out a metal ring I had been fingering, the one I had found being ornamentation on my satchel, the one which I had cut off the suitcase just then for this purpose. I slipped it on her ring finger. "From me. Make an honest woman out of you..."

She accepted the token, and looked quizzically at me. "You – me," I said, pointing at each of us in turn. I linked my index fingers. She smiled broadly – which made my heart skip a beat – and linked hers in agreement.

I picked up my satchel, my bundle, and left without looking back.


	10. POV part 1: Stranger

**P.O.V.**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part one: Stranger**

* * *

He appeared one after-high-sun without warning.

This is my story, and now-I-will-tell-it.

I was preparing food when I heard the crowd approaching, with the warriors at the lead, singing out their arrival and their pride in the prisoner they had captured. Oxmelsa was grinding _Borbuk__'__ka_ seeds into medicine, as is his duty, and he heard the tumult too. My Shaman rose to investigate. I followed him out the door of the hut, head bowed and attentive, as is _my_ duty.

The sight of him was shocking. His face and hands were as pale as _gamb__'__ka_ fruit's flesh, and he had sharp eyes and hair that was... well... pale also, but not really so much _pale_ as _red_. He wore the finest of cloth, over unnaturally most all his body, and on his head was a basket headdress made of finely worked fibers. Even his feet were covered with white hide. As you hear me tell the story, you will laugh and insist such a man could not exist! Yet there he stood; held under spear-point, watching Oxmelsa with those sharp eyes as the warriors told their story of his capture. I cowered behind Oxmelsa and kept my eyes low.

Netan'akte was bragging, as is his way. "–but I tested him with my spear-point; and he _bled_," he told with over-stuffed voice, addressing the crowd as much as addressing my husband, "So by this, I deemed him to not be the danger-enemy returned. I deemed him safe to bring to the People, and I present him now into your hands, Wise-One," he ended. "This is my story, and now-it-is-told."

All his bragging got him nothing, as my Shaman was not hearing his words. He was staring at this stranger with wide-eyes. I was afraid. Afraid of how this man looked (whether he _bled_ or _not_) because he was wondrous-strange. The stranger held my husband's gaze without shying from it (an act which by itself showed great authority) and waited till Netan'akte was done with his bragging. The stranger then spoke, but when he did, he did not use real-words.

Oxmelsa spoke in words, though. He cried out "Kolch'ak-who-is-bound-to-me!" and all the People were amazed. I shrank in astonishment. Bound? To this stranger?_**Name-bound?**_

My shaman staggered forward and greeted him, then raised his injured hand to examine it. "Wife! A healing slurry!" he called, and I flew. My mind was a-jumble as I ripped the leaves from their roots behind the hut in my garden and hurried to grind them on my stone. _This must be… must be… he from the colors!_ I thought in amazement – as my husband had told me of his encounter late one night during the enemy-hunting. _I am co-bound to a man from the smoke-trance! And he has left the words of my husband__'__s story and stands here in the city! _

My hands were shaking so badly I feared I would drop the healing mass as I bound his hand with a new cloth. His blood was right-red and his hand was warm, and this calmed me, but I did not dare glance at his unnatural bright face, instead I busied myself with the healing.

Oxmelsa was addressing the crowd. "–which we fought and defeated (_songs-be-sung-of-our-victory_). But we would have grasped _no_ victory without his good-council. Remember how strange? Guidance-council no-man could have guessed. I declare this: this stranger is why the People survived to tell the story!"

A great quiet came across the crowd. I glanced side-ways at Netan'akte, who was pale-beyond-unhealthy at this telling. He had drawn a hero's blood! All the hero needed was to say it so, and demand revenge, ten-times-ten. I smiled secretly to see how this would play-out.

But the stranger was merciful, and did not call the Blood-for-Blood. He said things to my Shaman, but it was garbled and held no meaning. "He uses the outsider-words," said Bemeroc. The stranger motioned and insisted, but no-man understood him.

My husband pondered the problem and quoted, "_One head cannot hold up the roof_. We will have many-council." Oxmelsa began to issue directions; call the gathering of elders, bring Quelat'chi the portuguese-speaker, prepare a feast of welcoming that we would celebrate this very day. The crowd flew apart with excitement and purpose, and the council began gathering at the Circle inside.

I hurried to the store-house in the center-square for _mek__'__tahksh__'__a_ leaves for the refreshment of the council. "Can it be true?" whispered my friend Watahn'ish, as she handed me what I required. "I have heard there is a stranger arrived who is name-bound to your husband! Tell me this is wild rumor!"

"It is true. He is the hero from whom my Shaman received council – within the Smoke-and-Colors!"

"And he walks our world?!" she squeaked. I nodded. "_Not_ made of smoke-and-colors?"

I shook my head. "I have tended his wound myself. He is flesh."

"What will you _do_?" she whispered with wide eyes.

"My duty," I answered simply. " –as is correct." But I spoke it with more confidence that I felt.

When I returned, the council was already in discussion. These are topics for men-folk; magic and mysteries. But I was preparing the refreshment and could not be blamed for my hearing what was said. Or what was _not_ said, as it happened. There was no talking with this hero_-_man. Even our speaker, Quelat'chi, said the words from his mouth held no meaning. The elders were unquiet-in-spirit, to wonder what manner of visit this may be.

The stranger valued an odd bundle that he carried in a carry-bag; a bundle of leaves bound together, and these delicately patterned, also pale (like so much of what he possessed), no bigger than a man's out-stretched fingers. He had pressed it for some reason into the hands of our speaker, but whatever magic it possessed was lost on Quelat'chi. The elders now examined this, with wonder and worry.

Oxmelsa came to me, and led me to the side, as the circle puzzled on this bundle. "You understand your part in this." he stated.

"I do."

"Here is great-opportunity for you to strengthen your husband. Are you frightened?"

My breath caught in my chest. Speaking of my fear made it larger in my mind, and brought my fear close enough to touch."Yes." I answered finally, truthfully.

"I know you will not fail me."

Then spoke the dutiful wife, "I will strengthen the bond between you. May it be as is correct; I will be an additional link between the two of you. May your wife seal for you a strong ally in him."


	11. POV part 2: Dance-and-stories

**P.O.V.**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part two: Dance-and-Stories**

* * *

The celebration was large. The drummers drummed and the warriors danced in their feathered arm-bands, and in the headdress-that-dances, re-living their joy in the victory all over again while the women called from the outer circle, singing praise for the cunning of their men-folk. Afterward, the feasting came. The women had out-paced their skills of the past and the food had appeared: plentiful and aroma-heavy. Long stories were told to the delight of all, but the hero-stranger sat brooding on his own unfathomable thoughts, and told no story.

The fingers of the needle-workers had flown the entire after-high-sun. The stranger had been given a cape-let of bright _tika__'__a_ _bird_ feathers, as was fitting for a High Shaman, to honor him at the ceremony of the story-telling. Also a green feathered headdress of the _deet__'__sha_ bird had been prepared, but the Kolch'ak would not accept the honor. Many were the theories as to why not; some claimed the feather-work must not skilled enough, but no; I examined the headdress, myself – and this was _not_ the cause. Some thought his Guardian Animal must have been the Jaguar, and the _deet__'__sha_ bird would have been contrary.

But the theory that won the day was that, although the feather headdress was full-of-honor, the basket headdress he already wore held his own High-Magic which we People could not understand, and for him to remove it would open him up to risk somehow.

All were satisfied with this explanation.

I was kept twice-busy during the feasting, serving both Oxmelsa and the new High Shaman. The first time he accepted food-stuffs from my hand, I admit, my heart was pounding a new rhythm. My destiny-path was set-solid with this exchange. But I kept my eyes low. The Kolch'ak did not deign to speak to me at all, but frowned deep in his own thoughts as he stared into the bonfire. To me he seemed not-satisfied. But the roast boar was excellent, the _man__'__ata_ exceptional, the songs and stories well-told, the _qui'__nak_ warm and flavorful. But still he frowned. Who knows what wonders a High Shaman wonders at?

I returned to the women by the spit to refill my carry-plates with meat. "How goes it with you, Pohkan'taish?" my friend Watahn'ish, who was the carver, asked cautiously.

"Well."

Salim'che, who was also there, asked, "Has he accepted food from your hand?" A small group of women gathered, instantly, to hear the answer.

"He has accepted."

The women nodded as one. "Then he has agreed to the couple-binding," all agreed.

"How will you prepare?" asked K'enasha in a hushed tone.

I had no good answer for her. "How does one prepare for a coupling with a High Shaman, so powerful?" I asked, possibly more forceful than was polite. "Give me your wisdom if you have any, for I could well use some now!" But no-woman had council.

Helt'ashi sniffed. "_Bah__'__tana_ says she is pleased to not stand in your station. She says the stranger will not shoot seed – but _fire_!"

The others gasped, but Watahn'ish shot back tartly, "You talk like a learn-ling! What nonsense! A man is a _man,_ and shoots _seed_."

Helt'ashi sniffed again. "A _man_ has hair on his head and not fire. _Bah__'__tana_ says he is a _half-god_. And that he will shoot fire." The other women fell silent and exchanged worried glances.

"Bah'tana talks large for someone with no station," I commented cooly. "If he carry fire on his head, why has the basket-headdress not burned, eh?"

"Bah'tana has given her husband two _sons_, which is better than station." Her words stung my face, even though her words were true. I lowered my eyes for the appropriate interval to acknowledge my shame. Then she continued, "The headdress does not burn because of High-Magic. The People cannot understand––"

Watahn'ish interjected, "Any fire on his head is quenched by the water of his eyes! Have you looked into the eyes?" she asked me, earnestly.

"Of course not!" I cried, shocked at the thought.

"Well,_ I_ have looked, do-not-think-poorly-of-me. His eyes are not right-black at all, but the color-of-water! I speak the truth."

The others gasped. "What means this?" they cried.

"That the water will _balance_ the fire, and she will _live_."

"You don't know that for sure!" Mohran'ta retorted.

"None of us know _anything_ for sure!" I exploded. "How can we?!"

Salim'che broke in with, "Qu'aneka thinks he is only _partly_ walking the earth. She thinks he is still half-way in the spirit-world and this is why his color is half-missing. She thinks what we see is only a **shadow** of his true self!"

I shook my head resolutely. "I have tended his wound myself," I pointed out. "I have served him food, which he has eaten as any man. He is _flesh_!"

"Strange flesh, if flesh as you say. And powerful, with no argument," offered Ina'katau.

"Who can tell what other magic he masters?" K'enasha whispered.

Watahn'ish's eyes were wide with fear. "Be _careful_, Pohkan'taish!" she urged me.

I took my carrying-plate, and also a cup of _qui'__nak_, and returned to the fire. My heart was beating hard in my chest. This was all-too-strange. Anyone could see the High Shaman was not natural. But could he really be super-natural? Was I naive to enter the coupling-hut with this man-hero? A resolve then formed itself in my head; I would see his eyes. And when I knelt in-front of the Kolch'ak's stool again, I looked up boldly into his face, before I could shame myself out of the plan.

This boldness surprised him (as it would surprised any decent man) but he was merciful once more, and smiled mildly. His eyes were indeed soft and water-colored. He was very handsome, in a world-weary sort of way. What's more, the unnatural _gamb__'__ka_ fruit color of him seemed to make him almost _glow_ in the reflected fire-light. I froze there, kneeling at his feet for a long moment; knowing that this powerful man, or half-god, or what he was, would this-night take possession of me. Part of me was terrified by the idea – and part of me suddenly wanted it very badly.

Oxmelsa was addressing the council, which had gathered close to the fire for many were old-men and were honored with the place. "––it may seem so," he was telling them, "but _No ant can tell the story of the hawk__'__s flight_; I can tell you only what I saw. The Colors-unseen pierce all men and all plants, as I have re-counted to you. But they do not pierce this Shaman." The council murmured at this. "They pass by him in this-path," he gestured, "and gather again at his head."

"What then does this mean?!" asked Bemeroc, amazed.

"I do not know." Oxmelsa frowned, "He told me clearly he was just a man. But! First he has great secrets to share with me, powerful knowledge to defeat the danger-enemy (_songs-be-sung-of-the-victory)_, and the colors themselves crown him. Now he comes to the People, but can not use real-words." My Shaman shook his head and studied the High Shaman who, in turn, silently studied the embers of the fire, frowning also. "He is unquiet-in-spirit. He is bursting with need to make us understand... _something_. Perhaps he has new knowledge to give us concerning an enemy, new or old. Perhaps a warning of a danger coming, which we must hear. Or maybe he has a request which, as is correct, we are bound to give." The council sat in thought. The fire popped and hissed, filling the silence. "I see no other path ahead of us. We _must_ talk." Oxmelsa spoke quietly. "I will re-enter the trance with him."

Oxmelsa's words drew swift reaction. The elders leaned forward all-together and voiced caution and patience. I rose up and hurried away to the side.

* * *

From a distance I watched the discussion that would hold my husband's fate. Each elder took turn to reason with him about the dangers of the Smoke-and-Colors, but he answered each in turn with his own counter-reasoning. One by one, after saying their piece they fell silent. None had shaken Oxmelsa's resolve, indeed each had in the end been won over to his wisdom; the High Shaman _must_ be understood and spoken with. This was the only way.

My own mind was sick with worry for my husband; only once in three generations had someone entered the smoke-trance, so serious was this magic. Oxmelsa had survived –– the first time. But what of this time?

My husband called me to him with a quick gesture. I came immediately, of course. "Go, prepare yourself," he said simply. I left the bonfire at once and hurried to my hut. As I passed silently through the dark city, the thoughts in my over-full head were far from silent. I knew what lay before me. My concerns and my not-knowing fought in my body with my growing coupling-hunger.

How does one prepare for coupling with a half-god?

I scrubbed my skin till it had rosy glow, and anointed my body with coco butter, for richness. Usually, I enjoy the sensual feel of coco butter as I rub it into my skin, but I was too nervous to feel its creaminess. I thought, _If I am to die in a coupling with this man, at least I finish life with my dignity intact and my duty unsoiled... ...Except for… the one deficit…_I dismissed this thought to focus better on the preparation. I straightened my hair and re-braided it with a band-of-many-colors and out-lined my eyes with a charred stick from the cold-fire. I was trembling. I felt like a learn-ling again, unsure and awkward. I looked up to the high-shelf and carefully removed the tunic-of-patterned-cloth from its place of honor, and let my fingers tarry a few moments on the colored threads. I did allow myself a smile at the quality of the cloth. My work was tight and true. I would take courage and identity from wearing the very best work of my hands.

The preparation turned my mind toward the coupling; anticipation and dread, fire and water. Somehow all mix-blended inside me. This powerful man… waited for me at the fire… no doubt anticipating his coming possession. My hands grew cold, my loins at the same time quite warm.

I did not believe Bah'tana's silly predictions. Still... Before returning to the bonfire, I quickly prepared an offering for the Earth Mother Goddess and knelt before the shrine to deliver its power on my behalf, in case... well, just in case...

I hurried then back to the celebration, and stopped a distance behind my Shaman. The women at the meat-spit saw me, but could no longer come to encourage me, for now I was on my destiny-path. I stood apart, in the middle of the crowd; isolated from all the women – and all men as well, save one.


	12. POV part 3: Coupling

**P.O.V.**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part three: Coupling**

* * *

When he saw me standing to the side, Oxmelsa called the feasting to a close. I followed the council back through the city at a respectable distance. My heart was beating its wings wildly, but outside I was calm. This is testament to my city's expectation, my resolve, and to the finely worked cloth I wore – which gave me courage. When we reached the hut arranged for him, the council stopped. My Shaman spoke seriously. "Kolch'ak-who-is-bound-to-me. We both understand the path that lies ahead. I will begin the meditation-preparation. You must, also." The Kolch'ak nodded and responded in kind. "But! Before you prepare, we have the occasion to consummate the binding-link, as is correct, which we could not do until your arrival here. I set forward my wife, may she be pleasing." he brought me forward. "Pohkan'taish."

I stepped forward, adorned like a bride. I kept my eyes low, but a woman learns early in life to see many details through the corners of the eye. The High Shaman turned to me, and to the surprise and delight of all around, he touched the High-Magic headdress before accepting me into the hut. I blushed with the honor, and the council murmured approval at his magnanimity. I took a long breath. I had no idea what to expect from this hero-Shaman, but my face was hot with honor as the council left.

We entered inside and I immediately knelt obediently. By now, I was already heavy with coupling-readiness. I felt my face hot and my life-pouch throbbed in anticipation of his touch. This powerful man would now take possession of me. Fear was gone from my head; chased-out. The whole of my head was large enough at this point, only to hold the coupling-hunger. It seems awe and arousal when mix-blended are a powerful brew.

I spoke. "I am Pohkan'taish, good-wife of the Shaman Oxmelsa-with-whom-you-are-bound. Our coupling will strengthen your bond, to the benefit of both men. I am available for whatever your wisdom or your coupling-drive wishes, Kolch'ak-who-is-bound-to-him." But he did not answer me. "What is your desire? Command your woman." But he did not understand and did not command me.

I rose and said the same with my hands. Now he received my message and responded in kind. I ran my hands over his chest and arms, thrilling in the feel of him, and of the feel of the cloth which would have bought a king's ransom. He wore not one tunic, but many; layers and layers. What purpose this could have – other than to teach his wife _rare patience_ – I could not guess.

As he made to remove his outer-most garment, I saw his magic flash in the dark. Yes! I _saw_ the magic visibly, as blink-quick sparks of light between the clothing layers with delicate-snapping-noise as he pulled the one garment past the other. Oxmelsa, for all his knowledge-wisdom, in all the years we were married, never once snapped and flashed with magic-power in my presence. My awe re-doubled, and my arousal kept-pace.

The coupling was also magic. This man was gentle. I was surprised by this, since with the power he possessed, he (by-rights) would be able to command. But he chose instead to _share_. My surprise in this coupling was great. Maybe this was his High-Magic. Maybe he carried me away with him ever-so-slightly into the spirit world, I do not know. Maybe this was his habit, and he had absorbed me into himself-spirit for this coupling.

Ah! I felt a great-oneness with this hero-shaman, a _oneness_ that was large and powerful and delicate and pure all at once. As I slid back into the jungle-world, I felt at-peace like I had not seen before. And he was there to catch me. It did not matter that I held no outsider's-words to talk to him now, for even real-words failed me completely. Blissfully, no words at all were needed between us, and sleep came later as we held each-other tenderly.

In the morning-light, I woke to find myself next to the High Shaman still asleep. Now I could look and look as long as I liked. I liked what I saw. Most striking was his hair, for sun came through the opening and shone on it – and it shone right back, in reply. It was red-orange-brown all at once and was not even straight, but held motion in each hair like a wave on water set-solid. I studied this miracle many long minutes. This same hair was also thick across his _chest_, although less-long. You will say I was mistaken in this, but I know what I saw. He had thick short hair on his chest like that of a monkey. A shadow of this color also appeared in his lower-face, which I did not understand. He was not muscle-heavy, except for his hands and lower-arms, which appeared strong and capable. The color of him was thrilling, as if the purity of him shown even in his skin.

Then he could feel my eyes on him, for he woke here and immediately smiled broadly. I moved closer to him, remembering the night before with a warm rush. He seemed honestly delighted to find me next to him, and spent long moments feeling my skin with hesitant fingertips and searching my face with his water-eyes. His hair dazzled in the light. I could scarce tear my eyes off the exquisite color of it. It was soft to the touch. I caressed the odd hairs-of-the-chest. I felt his chin, and to my amazement it was not soft like the wave-hair but rough like the bark of the _batwa_ tree. Now I understood! His Guardian was not the Jaguar at all, but the Tree-Spirit!

This explained much.

His attention turned again to coupling, intent as he was on double-strengthening the bond between he and Oxmelsa, and he found me beyond-willing. Surely the spirit-world smiled on the bond, for I pleasured him and was again rewarded beyond-beyond.

I must tell of his garments, for a story needs to tell of amazements. When we rose, he dressed himself in soft under-clothing, one piece for the top and a separate one for the bottom, as if such extravagance were as normal as normal! This is how he was adorned as I poured the water.

He was delighted as I brought him a bowl of water for the morning-washing. He rinsed his hands and face. Then began a most intricate ritual, one that he repeated each morning he was with me: sitting on a stool, he spread a white cream his chin (I do not invent this) and with a small tool from his carry-bag, he began a slow scrapping procedure to remove it off again. All this while he stared intently into a round disk that showed him back, what he showed it. He took great care with this, and I sat quietly on the floor watching. He was calm and focused in this ritual, and I came to understand this was part of his meditation. He was preparing for the smoke-trance. What a strange meditation! But who knows the workings of a High Shaman's mind?

I fingered the cloth of his outer clothing that lay on the pallet next to me, for now I could, and I marveled. His outer-garment was finely woven. Thin lines were unbelievably even, across the whole width, here – and on the leg-coverings too. Beyond this, there was the other piece; the most wondrous tunic cloth. If given the chance, I would surely sit at the feet of his wife for many-moons to learn her skill as she sat at the loom! Its color was the color of the sun-full-sky – do not think I embellish here, for I do not. The color was _blue_, clear and evenly dyed. In my mind's eye I could see this wife, as she reached up and broke off a piece of the sky (either by his magic, or by her own) and nibbled it away, to gain the skill to dye the cloth this hue. And the weave was as smooth as a child's skin! I sat fingering it for a long time, in awe of the woman's skill. My skill for cloth-making is not un-admired in the city, but this man was obviously accustomed to _so much more_. And to think I had been so proud to wear tunic-of-patterned-cloth the night before. I was ashamed of my pride.

When he had finished the scraping ritual, he pulled on the magnificent garments. Layer and layer he pulled on; three over his chest! These many-layers were not needed for modesty. Indeed, the first layer was plenty for the purpose. The many-layers were not needed for warmth, indeed for warmth they would be over-kill. I reasoned these magnificent garments functioned – as one would expect of garments so fine – as spirit-protection. Surely their magic must match the amazing skill of their production. I was pleased he faced the world so well protected. I told him, "Now has begun the fasting-preparation. I am here to serve in any way I can, as is correct. Command me."

But he gave me no instruction.


	13. POV part 4: Mystery

**P.O.V.**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part four: Mystery**

* * *

The protection-garments that had snapped and flashed with magic the night before, now hung calm. He worked the magical closings on the garments, and sat on the pallet and covered his feet as well. Then, being so-girded against spirit-dangers, he took a small bundle out of his carry-bag. The High Shaman showed me something brown and stiff in his hand, but I did not understand what he spoke. He bit off a small piece of this and chewed. Food!

_Food? _

He offered it again, and I took a piece cautiously. Never have you seen an uglier piece of nourishment. I sniffed it, and took a tiny piece in my mouth. If this were food, it was indeed a sad result of an attempt at preparation. Too salty and badly over-done, hard even to chew! I shook my head. This wife of his – too much time spent at the _loom_ and not enough time spent learning at the _cook-fire! _"If you do not fast for the preparation, I will bring you food. _Real_ food," and I left the hut.

Watahn'ish found me not 20 steps from the hut, it seemed the girl had been watch-waiting. "Pohkan'taish!" she cried in relief. She ran and embraced me, which caused me to laugh.

"I am fine, silly-friend! Beyond-fine. _Beyond_ beyond-fine!" I smiled.

"How was it? It was not ...?"

"No. It was... wonderful. And ..._surprising_." Her eyes went wide and I giggled. I added mischievously, "This is my story, and now-it-is-told."

"_This_ counts as no story!" she told me in mock disapproval, releasing me from the embrace. "Because a story contains _details_." She shook her finger at me playfully and instructed, "Correct your story now, by putting them back in –– for I will hear _every single one!__"_

"Each detail I _add__,_ you will hear," I told her tartly, "but these shall number _very few_!" We fell back into our embrace, laughing. "Oh, Watahn'ish." I whispered into her hair, "I have seen the Waterfall."

Her breath caught in her throat. "For the first time?" she asked quietly. I nodded wordlessly, and she squealed and spun me around like a happy child.

Finally I stopped her. "The High Shaman does not fast. He requires food."

"Does _not_ fast?" she asked in astonishment. "How does this work?"

"I do not know. But he will have his own tribe's wisdoms."

Her face lit up. "I have prepared boiled _koh__'__tloa_ root in my house. Come and take! I and my family will fast in-his-stead today. He will honor us in allowing us to perform this support! Come and take. Truth! The mash is so tasty, you will forget your siblings! Come!"

This I did, and returned to his hut with steaming bowls. The Kolch'ak was pleased with the boiled root, but when I took my place with my bowl, he stopped eating. It seemed he motioned for me to come to table next to him, but of course, I must have misunderstood his meaning. I searched for what it could be he was insisting I do, anxious as I was to please. He repeated. Still I searched. Then he gestured clearly –– he _did_ want me up next to him! But I shook my head resolutely. What cheek would I have to sit at _any_ man's table, let alone this man's! What happened next I hardly dare tell. He and his bowl came to be next-to me. What could this mean? I sat and wondered at these things.

This man was a heavy-mystery, too heavy for my poor mind to sort-out. But! Some things could be known. If his guardian in fact be the Tree-Spirit, many things were certain. He would be a deep-rooted-thinker; long-time seeing, and steady in any crisis. He would be resilient, long-suffering, and privy to old knowledge others did not have. How fortunate was his tribe!

After this meal his meditating was over, for he spent the day not in mind-discipline at all, but physical exertion. He walked the entire city. At first I tried to attend to him, but he seemed to not require my assistance. All the People watched him without impeding him, and made theories as to what he was accomplishing with this strange meditation-practice. Some said he was reading the magic the city held, reading the rivers and poolings of magic between different huts. Others said he was _absorbing_ this magic as he passed through its flow, in order to be strong for the trance. The People were of one mind; he was enthusiastically offered all the magic he could take on.

And another detail; we found the High Shaman was not afraid of _snakes_ in the least. The People reasoned he must be immune to snake-bite. I witnessed myself how he entered areas that the People _avoid _altogether_,_ or walk into only with extreme caution – and only if they _must_. Areas which were clear to all, to entice the snake-whose-bite-is-death! This the Kolch'ak entered and walked through, with no hint of caution or fear. All the city noticed this, and were envious of his immunity.

I should mention in my story, that he possessed two magical time-boxes which were wondrous to watch when he called up their powers. These held his interest often the days he was with us. The first had a sight-passage near the top, and held inside it the day-light of an entire day. But! This box could _spend_ that day-light in a single moment! (I do not lie) In this way, an entire day could pass in a blink. However, we reasoned it must be a spirit-world day, as the time-passage did not show on our world. The other magic time-box was not for making time go forward, but _backward; _truth! This could roll time backwards so one could hear what had been _said_ or _sung_ in the past. This level of power – yes, time-flow itself! – the High-Shaman held in the palm of his hand and all the People were amazed.

After trying to keep up with him at a polite distance most of that first morning, his energy showed no lessening. I reasoned he did not need me attending, and I returned to his hut for food-preparation. While chopping gua'kant stems, my curiosity took hold of my head and would not release me, until I went to look deeply into the magical round disc that the High Shamen had stared into that morning during his scraping ritual. I gasped at what I saw. It showed me what I showed it, as was its habit, which was in this case _me_. But not in the manner of the brown river-water, where the face dances and mis-shapes on the surface. Not in this manner, no. This round disc showed me a face so clear, so true! As if I were talking to another woman in the hut, although I was alone there. Yes, this pure! I put it down again quickly, not worthy to hold such wonders in my hand.

It was good that I had come back to the hut, for he did return, with an agitated manner and a furrowed brow. He sat with a slender stick, making magical patterns on one of his bound-leaf packets. This seemed to occupied him, but his foot tapped impatiently when he paused in the drawing to think. He had much to tell me of my husband Oxmelsa by name, but unhappy woman that I am; I could not understand his wisdoms.

We coupled again that night. Then as we lay in the bliss-afterwards, his agitation was calmed. He lay contented and dreamy and began to _hum_. I lay very still to hear this, because it was no normal song. As you know, normal music is for dance-feasts and works to move the feet of the warriors in together-motion. But this melody did not beat-out-rhythm or repeat at all. This melody... _wandered_. As if the notes were free in the air, like a butterfly's flight; able to go where-ever it chose. I lay next to him, fascinated. It seemed to me that, although he did not understand the People's real-words, nor I _his_ outsider-words, at that moment there were no barriers to our mutual-understanding of his mood –of our mood– in the listening-to of this wander-melody. He noticed my attention, and with a chuckle, continued the melody farther; quietly with voice, using "dah" and "pah" over and over as song-words, and tapping out a gently rhythm with his fingertips on my bare shoulder. I was mesmerized, and he smiled smugly to see the communication that flowed between us.

Again I slept the deep-sleep of contentment and security, with his arm draped over me.

In the morning, I sat respectfully on the floor as the Kolch'ak performed the scraping ritual. So strange it was to watch. While he concentrated on the scraping, I noticed the long dark amulet that he wore around his neck tossed there to the side during our coupling, and dared to take it in my hands to examine it closely. It was finely-worked and subtile to feel, worthy of the magic it must contain. It ran through my fingers like a snake-skin; this smooth! It folded willingly, but of course I could not tie the knot, try as I might. My fumbling amused him. When his ritual was finished and he had pulled on the fine-tunic, he pulled me up from the floor, and took the amulet gently from my hands. Standing behind me, he held the ends of the amulet in front of me. I gasped as he looped it loosely around _my_ neck and began forming the knot while holding me snug between his elbows, and speaking into my hair. I felt dizzy with emotion and magic. He was casually performing the _Binding Ceremony_ – with me! A female! My breath caught in my throat. He confidently passed the band this-way and that-way, speaking his spell – as casually as if he were only instructing me on the forming of the knot. I was overcome. That this High Shaman would honor me so– !

Once the knot was formed, he tightened it to a comfortable tightness on my neck –for this wondrous band could slide the knot magically along its length– then, smiling, he loosed it again and moved it from my neck to his own, tightening it at his own throat and leaving it hanging over his heart. The Binding was complete. He smiled broadly at my wide-eyed amazement; clearly he was pleased with the Binding.

How does a woman tell of such things? Who is there in the world would believe the story?


	14. POV part 5: Gentle

**P.O.V.**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part five: Gentle**

* * *

This High Shaman had odd ways. In the beginning of our time together, he would often take my face in his hands when I was talking to him, or when he was talking to me, and move my face upward to have me look him directly into-the-eye. He liked this. This action he needed to repeat many times over the days we had-together, for it was unnatural to me. But I eventually made myself more comfortable with it, for he did desire it so.

One morning the Kolch'ak started what I took to be a game. He drew a fish for me in the pounded-dirt of the court-yard, then gave me the outsider's-word for this. (How can a word-of-one-beat be large enough to contain the meaning of a whole object?) I gave him the real-word for the drawing, gave him the word 'fish', and after learning it, he got a crafty look about him and, erasing the fish, drew a tree. He pointed to this with question in his eye and I said "Tree." He smiled. Again he erased and drew a bowl. "Bowl," I told him. This was followed by 'monkey' and then by 'hut'; each time I gave him the real-name, and his excitement grew with each new word.

The High Shaman then pulled out his bound-leaves and patterns-stick to be at-the-ready: he caught me in a cunning gaze and drew a new drawing.

I could not give him a word. This drawing was not clear. I turned my head this-way and that-way to guess what this might be. He leaned forward on his stool and watched me, like a hunter watching a rabbit slowly approach his trap.

"What is this?" I asked.

"_What-is-this!__"_ he repeated back, his eyes bright with delight. "What––is––this!" he repeated again slowly, while making small patterns with his stick in his bound-leaves. Then he frowned at the patterns a while. After practicing silently a few times, he turned to me and, picking up my basket, asked; "What-is-this?" using real-words!

"Basket," I grinned, realizing what he was doing. He clapped his hands once, in victory, and laughed heartily. This sound of his delight gave me great-pleasure.

The rest of the afternoon, that question was asked many, many times; with me, and with other members of the city. He gathered new words with both-hands and by evening had some 50 objects he could name, using the real-words of the People. His melody-of-speech was un-graceful, but understandable. No matter; I was convinced that – if he could survive the smoke trance! – we could teach him to speak afterwards. My imagination was dream-happy with the thought of ideas-sharing-together with him once this was accomplished.

* * *

When he caught me staring straight at him (which happened often –I must confess – for my wayward eyes became more hungry, not more sated, in the looking) he never took offense. Not once. I think it _pleased_ him, if such a thing can be true. And I do believe it can be true. The High Shaman was like no other man I had ever known, and broke expectations at-every-turn.

I began to think I may never see this Shaman angry, or violent. No, I correct my story – one time. This is how it happened: I was examining his magic time-boxes which were covered with small round decorations – like flattened beads which intrigued me; but when the Kolch'ak entered and saw me with them in my hand, he raised his voice in a loud cry. My first thought was _Ay! I have finally found the place where his anger has been hiding! Now it comes! _I let the boxes fall onto the sleeping-pallet, and throwing myself in a corner, I covered my head with my arms and braced myself for the first blow.

But it did not fall. When I opened my eyes a sliver, I saw he had run first to examine the boxes before disciplining me. I cowered, and in-spite of shaking with fear, I waited obediently. I did not run – as some women do – for in my panic I still reasoned; how could I possibly hide from this powerful Shaman? Where could I ever go to escape him? I held my arms protecting my head, whimpering, and strongly hoped the beating would be just a normal beating, and contain no _magic_.

When he had entered, his voice had been angry, but his voice reversed-its-course as soon as he turned to face me in my corner. His voice was _distressed_, but I was too-tight with fear to understand. He came towards me talking soothingly, like one would to a frightened child. I flinched when he first touched me, but the blows I dreaded never came. He joined me then in the corner and gently pulled me to him. _Ay!_ I was frightened. He held me in a timid embrace, clumsily stroking my hair, and talking on and on in his own strange words. No beating. No anger.

After a while, once I was calm, he showed me the boxes (held well outside my reach) from all sides, to relieve my curiosity, then motioned his desire that I not touch them again. I never did.

One other time I heard him yell, but not in anger. No. In fear. This is how that happened: It was middle-night, and I awoke to find him talking, no – _fighting_ in his sleep. He tossed from this-way to that-way and murmured panic under his breath. I was worried, and cooed, "Wake. Wake – you are safe."

At that moment he sat up-right straight and voiced a loud cry that would have frighten the best warrior. He flailed in the darkness, and I sought to comfort him with, "Kuu-ru-ku! Kuu-ru-ku. It was a night-story! Only a night-story... Kuu-ru! Kuu-ru-ku" My hands found him in the darkness as he fought; he was covered with sweat, his breathing was hard and fast, and his heart-beat with it (which I could easily feel when I touched him). I rubbed him soothingly and cooed my assurances. He said, with cracking voice, '_Pocahontas?__'_ Then he finally seemed to realize where he was, and fell back as dead-weight onto the pallet. I felt his hands cover his face, and for a while his breathing stopped altogether as he held his breath tight while he struggled with emotion that was too big for his chest. But then he released his frazzled mind over to it, and gave two deep sobs before he pushed it back under control. He rolled away from me, curled up monkey-style, and shook silently until the fit left him, all-the-while I stroked his back and cooed my assurances. My heart wanted to move right out of my chest with co-emotion. What panic was this? Truth, this must be anxious thoughts of what lay ahead for him in the smoke-trance –– for, what _other_ experiences in a man's life could **_possibly_** be so terrifying? I put my arms around him and held tight until finally, spent and calmed, his mind returned fully to the real-world. He rolled slowly onto his back again and allowed me to hold him. After a long while he spoke to me many words in a quiet voice in his own tongue, and shuttered the last of the night-story away. We lay silent together for a long time.

That morning I awoke to find myself held, firmly, by him in his deep sleep – as if, in his unconscious state, he were grasping at something he needed desperately.


	15. POV part 6: Smoke-and-Colors

**P.O.V.**

**by SpunSilk**

**Part six: Smoke-and-Colors**

* * *

Netan'akte came to the hut just before sun-up, while the Kolch'ak still slept deeply. "The Shaman is ready." was all he said. It was all he needed to say.

I knew my duty, but my bones protested, and my muscles too. I moved like a snake in the cold-night to kindle fire for the ritual bathing. I must deliver the High Shaman to enter the dreaded Smoke-and-Colors. One husband had already left to prepare, now I must send the second after him. And I would sit here, thick in the not-knowing.

To think I could loose them _**both**_ in the Smoke-and-Colors! Old stories tell of madness to be found there. Other stories tell of monsters, and had I not seen evidence that monsters exist – with my own eyes?! The dangers were beyond-large, but I must now prepare this Gentle Shaman for what awaited him. I feared I did not have it in me to follow through with this duty.

He woke as I entered after kindling the fire and warming water for the bathing. He could read in my face my sorrow, but I could not hide it– I didn't even try. Who can wipe-away what is written on the forehead? He pulled me back onto the pallet with him, and held me close, as was his habit. I took in the smell and feel of his warmth, locking it away inside my memory; to be called on if ever I needed it. "Today the waiting is over," I told him. "Today by my Shaman's decree you will enter the smoke-trance together with him. _May-you-come-out-unharmed_!" I bathed his body–now suddenly as precious to me as my own– in the ritual cleansing. I started the singing, trying to bring up ceremony in me, but all I could think about was that I was bathing him for the burial ritual instead.

What does a man know of what a woman suffers? While his head is full of danger-mysteries and hunting, does he know his woman must wait at home with the not-knowing deep enough to drown a man twice-tall? I handed over the body-paint, but he did not paint. "You must paint protection." I encouraged him, "No-man should enter that what lies before you without protection!" But still he did not paint. Finally I took the gourd myself. "My husband's symbols will have to do." I said.

Once he was protected as well as I could manage, with symbols and songs, I draped the High-Shaman cape-let over him and lead him out toward his destiny-path. My steps were slow, as if I could avert this with my own actions. Here was I, a dutiful traitor to my Gentle Shaman, leading him toward what could easily destroy him. His mood was one of satisfaction and anticipation, and he spoke readily of Oxmelsa by name. He actually seemed impatient to be on his destiny-path. Brave was this one. My desires and my duty warred robustly with each other in my body the whole-journey, and my skin prickled with magic while leading him. My feelings were numb by the time I handed him to the men appointed Trace-Guard at the delivery-point. My mind watched my body move, but was not attached, neither physically nor emotionally. I embraced him one last time.

Then I turned and ran.

When I arrived back in the city, I made my way not to my own home, but (without realizing it until there), rather I arrived at the Gentle Shaman's hut. My tears were now tired of being held inside, and came with great-vigor. I fell onto the pallet where a short-time earlier he had held me.

There I laid, like one drunk on _qui'__nak_ and did not eat the whole day. I was not fasting-preparing at all, but rather I simply did not think to eat. My stomach was done using food, for now my whole body – stomach, spirit, head and feet – focused solely on the two men in the smoke-trance deep in the jungle. I felt a great heaviness, like a real weight, press down on me. As the sky darkened that evening, I pulled his carry-bag up onto the pallet with me and hugged it all-night-long through unquiet night-stories.

The next day, day-break found me hiking quickly again to delivery-point where I found Barna'loc standing guard. "Tell me!" I cried "Do they live?!"

He regarded me cooly. "They live. Both."

I would not relax until I had answer to my next question as well: "Are they... sane?"

"I have not seen them yet with my own eyes. They live; this alone I know."

"When are you to tend them yourself?"

"Why do you pester me? I will, when I am told. "

"Who has seen them? Whom can I ask?"

He frowned. "Your questions grow tiresome. They are _our_ concern."

In a daze, I turned obediently and went a short-distance into the trees. Dis-obediently, I waited outside of his sight until a long-while later when Mur'atar came to relieve him, and sent him up the path towards the hut. Mur'atar then took up the guard-post. I crept out of my hiding-place with a need-to-know so strong I felt I will burst.

"Have you seen the Shamen?"

"I have. I have tended them with my own hands." He said, puffed up with his own importance.

Fear of the answer almost make the question impossible to speak, but my lips did, in the end, obey me. "Are they... sane?"

"Sane. Exhausted." He spoke to me as if he had more important things to think about than talking to me.

I allowed myself to close my eyes in relief for a moment before asking my next question. "What of their discussion? Has the Kolch'ak delivered bad news again to my Shaman? Will the monster return?"

"And _I_ should know of their discussion?" he scowled at me. "And I more than _**you**_."

I accepted this. Still another question came. "Are they quiet-in-spirit?

He eyed me critically. "Oxmelsa meditates calmly. The other..." he considered. "... _broods_. Deeply. I think instead it is _he_ that has been delivered some bad news."

What can this mean? My heart jumped into my neck.

For the next days, I returned every sun-rise to hear news. The Trance Guard was not anxious to share with me, for the honor was _theirs_, but I never failed to appear at sun-up. "How do they fare?" I asked.

One day Barna'loc had finally had his fill. "Be gone, female! Return to your basket-making. _We_ tend the Shamen."

But I stood and did not leave. You will think me too bold… but my station had _changed_. Who was Barna'loc to send me away? I was Pohkan'taish: direct-bound to the Gentle Shaman – by his own hand! _I had this dignity._

Of course, Barna'loc did not know this fact, but that was irrelevant;_ I _knew it. And I would not be dismissed with a flick of his hand. I spoke politely, but I dared to speak. "You tend them now, but in three days time, _I _will tend them. I must know how they fare to prepare for them when they arrive. This you know to be true. _Give me answer_."


	16. POV part 7: Departing

**P.O.V. **

**by SpunSilk**

**Part seven: Departing**

* * *

**Come on, folks. I'm a tad nervous on this story, and really would like some feed-back. Please review. Take the time.**

* * *

Those days were a flurry of activity, preparing to receive them back into the city. My mood was joyous, given that both Shamen were safe-sane, and since it seemed we did not need to prepare for danger-enemy battle as in the last time. I gathered _mak__'__tabah_ leaves and _bish_-_na_ used to bring a body to full-vigor. I prepared celebration foods, rich _taquibásh_ and even _guatan'akl_ with a light heart. I performed all ceremonies of dwelling-cleansing to rid both huts of accumulated spirits, as both men would be vulnerable for a number more days still. I decorated the outside of the Gentle Shaman's hut with symbols befitting his station and status. This pleaded me greatly to do.

On the morning of the seventh day, having returned to my own home to gather precious salt for the food preparation, I was present when Oxmelsa was delivered to me by the Trance Guard. He was weak, but walked on his own power. The Guard left him with me. I knelt immediately to show respect, then leaped up to embrace him. "Are you alright, my Shaman?"

"I am. Your husband returns from the trance, whole." He smiled a tired smile.

"My-heart-sings." I answered. I led him to a chair to sit, rest, and recover. "What news of the Kolch'ak?"

Oxmelsa paused before giving answer, to choose his words well. "His magic is strong. Stronger than any I have ever seen. An amazing Shaman. Truly I am fortunate be name-bound to one such as this!"

"Did he tell you the reason he came?" I asked while I prepared a vitalizing-drink from the _mak__'__tabah_.

"He came to learn the ceremony of the Smoke-and-Colors. His father died before passing on the secrets." He said with tired eyes closed.

Ah! For _this_ he came! My relief was complete; no crisis, no warnings. Both my husbands; sane and safe. "You taught him, you answered his not-knowing, truth?"

"Of course." He fixed me then with a hard stare. "_No_ tribe should be left without a knowledge-wise shaman. Not his. Not _mine_."

My gut cramped at his disapproval, but I had no answer for his accusation, and I lowered my gaze immediately. I stayed silent for the appropriate interval to acknowledge my shame. Then I asked, "But then he should be _happy_ with your lessons. I was told he was troubled-in-spirit after the trance. Is he worried about awakened monsters from the Smoke-and-Colors?"

Oxmelsa took the drink from my hand. "Yes, he is unquiet-in-spirit. But his mood was not because of fear of monsters, but _displeasure_... on the subject of _you_." He drank long.

My mouth went dry and my knees failed me, I sank quietly to the ground in front of him. "Oxmelsa," I said, when I could speak again, "Save your poor wife's life; tell me he was not displeased with **_me_**."

"He was not. Quite the opposite, I think." he pondered, amused. "I think he was displeased to learn that he _shared_ you with _me_."

My mind could not turn this corner. "But––! But... that is clear-true!"

"Not to him."

"What is _clear-true_ must be clear-true to _all!_ Or it is by nature _not_ clear-true." I reasoned cleanly.

"His people have different-strange customs. And his tribe has other ideas of name-boundedness. For so many years I reasoned that his people were beyond-knowledgable. But now I must think-again, in some ways he seems _less_-civilized that the People."

"We have time now, no crisis approaches," I said confidently. "We will teach him the Way of Things. He is beyond-clever and will learn quickly; what-I-say-will-come-to-pass."

"He is leaving."

My mind stumbled. "Leaving? The city?"

"The Jungle."

"What?! When?"

"He has called for the canoes to be prepared now. I think he will be on-journey as soon as the row-men are gathered."

"What rash haste!" I cried.

"He tells of trouble in his tribe; that for which he came for the smoke-trance magic."

I flailed inside my mind. I had never thought about his _leaving_, so focused had I been about survival in the smoke-trance. Of _course_ he would have to leave... My spirit sank within my chest. His duty to his tribe... Yet I selfishly and stubbornly focused on my _own_ feelings; and these were in-flight, like a threatened flock of birds; flying-in-all-directions. "May I go to see him?"

"Go." Oxmelsa leaned back to rest his head on the cushion.

I flew to his hut with jaguar-speed. I entered to find the Kolch'ak standing in the middle of the hut with his carry-bag packed at his feet, glancing around the room with the air of a lost-child. He was as weak as my Shaman, haggard, with dark circles under his eyes, as if the last time he had slept well was with me before the trance, but seemed to be standing by sheer force-of-spirit. I was breathless and troubled as I had run toward the hut, but seeing him again suddenly – after so many days – gave me great surprise-joy.

I moved to embrace him, but he moved defensively and would not allow it. I felt suddenly a wall between us, seen clearly in his face and his body, as if it were a solid barrier. He spoke to me, but would not look at me for more than a glance.

I took his troubled face in my hands, in-order to see his water-color-eyes (as he had done to me so often in the beginning). He did look at me then, but with a brow deeply ridged, and eyes guarded. I spoke, "I understand what my Shaman tells, that you must go home with haste to tend to your tribe's troubles. Men must think first of their duty and their tribe, I know this. But I wish-uselessly that it were not so. This woman's-heart breaks to see your back." I spoke truthfully. "But know this; a piece of my spirit will follow with you. And a piece of yours will remain here with the People, in my spirit. I will remember: we are always-bound."

The Gentle Shaman stared at me for a long-while in silence. He then fumbled with a circle of metal in his hand. A circle of excellent metal, smooth and perfect-round. This he placed around a single finger of my left hand and motioned it was for me to possess. For a second, I saw a crack appear in his wall, and a glimpse of himself peeked through. But then he was distant again. I wondered at this high-gift, and he showed me the linking gesture; this was a metal circle of the our binding, an amulet sure to be full of its own magic. I understood, and responded with the linking gesture as well.

With that, he was gone. For a while, I stood alone in his hut, not sure what to do. But I fingered the metal amulet and was comforted, for it reminded me that we-two were always-bound, which did not change with his absence.

* * *

All this was over a year ago. And this is why I now wear this metal circle on a braided cord around my neck, dear little one – my precious little-shaman, the one you reach out for. The one you laugh and kick, to see it set swinging over your happy face. It happened this-way.

This is my story, and now-it-is-told.

FIN


End file.
